


it's not much (but my money's on you)

by jellyb34n



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, F/M, Politics, Secret Relationship, from cranky and reluctant colleagues to lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:02:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26332348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellyb34n/pseuds/jellyb34n
Summary: Brienne knocked again. Then she leaned on the bell.Inside, faintly and getting louder, “For the love of the fucking Seven.” Lannister threw the door open. He blinked, tipped his head up to meet Brienne’s eyes. He was in loose plaid pyjama bottoms, and was still tugging down a white t-shirt. His hair was mussed, his stubble a golden shadow against his tan skin, and he blinked again at her blearily under his frown. He somehow still looked good, damn him, and it only served to make her feel even more irritable.“Mr Lannister,” she said crisply, and she waited not a beat before shoving past him, right into his home uninvited. She hadn’t ever been so pushy, with a representative or otherwise, and it made her feel twitchy on top of everything else. But from their brief meeting, she suspected pushy was the only thing Lannister might respond to, so she’d steeled herself for it. She said over her shoulder, “We have four hours to prepare you.”“Ms — Tarth, is it?” Lannister said, snide, behind her. “Please. Do come in. Make yourself at home. In my home. It isn’t like I was sleeping. It’s just half fucking five in the morning. On a Saturday.”
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 182
Kudos: 233





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Unusually for me I don't have a whole lot to say about this one! Mostly know: this fic is super self-indulgent! It is mostly a romance with politics as backdrop. 
> 
> Speaking of which, the fictional political system of Westeros is mostly based on a UK or Canadian-esque parliamentary system but I'm going to borrow some things from the US system when it suits me. I know little to anything about the realities of being a policy wonk, so don't look for accuracy.
> 
> A note off the top: for those unfamiliar with parliamentary systems, "crossing the floor" is when an elected representative from one party switches to another, and literally crosses the floor of parliament (eg: from the governing party to the opposition). This features immediately, and then, like, never again.
> 
>  **Content warning** for this chapter of discussions of ableism/systemic ableism, allusions to work-place abuses.
> 
> As always my very many thanks to @auntie_social for betaing, and being enthusiastic, and also for this fic, helping me figure out where the fork chapter breaks ought to go ♥
> 
> Fic title from Dixon's Girl by Dessa. Alas, the song overall has not any relevance to the story, but it is a fabulous song and everyone should enjoy and support and love Dessa generally, which is a philosophy I hold dear to my heart.

The day Jaime Lannister crossed the floor Brienne lost 100 gold dragons.

There had been rumours that someone was defecting from government for all of two hours before Margaery had appeared at Brienne’s desk, eyes sparkling. In one hand she held an envelope. In the other, an old biscuit tin. Brienne barely glanced in the tin — saw the bills and a few crumbs clinging to the seams.

“What’s the buy-in?”

Brienne had known exactly who the rumours were about, and hadn’t doubted Lannister loyalty would ultimately win out.

It didn't. Brienne lost. But her loss was the party's gain by way of another seat in Parliament, so. That was overall a win. Probably.

Still. That night in the privacy of her flat, she watched the WBC late night report as they replayed the same bloody footage she had seen all day of the Lannister Lion’s crisp suit and confident stride, handsome face perfectly ordered into a _Good Politician’s Grim Determination at the Burdensome Decision He Has Made For the Good of the People_. She thought of her lost dragons and muttered, “Wanker,” at the screen.

* * *

Brienne always liked these meetings. She’d never say it out loud, but Cat taking Brienne under her wing had changed the entire trajectory of her career. Particularly after the turn things had taken with Renly. There wasn’t anything Cat might ask of her that Brienne wouldn’t willingly do.

Even so. It was near the end of their weekly briefing when Catelyn winced, and Brienne knew she wasn’t going to like what came next.

“I need you to bring Jaime Lannister —” and oh, Brienne heard how Cat _tried_ to say the name without rancour, “— into the fold.”

Brienne drew a breath. She reminded herself that Catelyn, staking her own and her family’s reputation on this run for Prime Minister, would not take any defection lightly, let alone a Lannister’s. But… even bearing that in mind, and despite Lannister’s defection being an irrefutable and very public declaration, Brienne still had her reservations. Jaime Lannister had already represented Lannisport North for the Tories for nearly two full terms, with only a year left of his second. What could possibly have changed now was beyond her.

And prior to that, his military record was exemplary, fine, an honourable discharge after sustaining the injury which cost him his right hand: which the Tories then exploited endlessly (and, to Brienne’s view, ruthlessly) to their advantage once Lannister entered Parliament. Pushing him out to sombrely explain why further cuts to disability support were necessary. And when there was inevitable criticism from Catelyn’s party, the Progressive Alliance and official opposition, the Tories would trot out that old stalwart: “The Minister nearly lost his life in defence of this country, protecting his compatriot, and yes, he did lose his right hand. This simply underscores that Mister Lannister understands what our colleagues on the Opposition do not. That sacrifices are needed in order to balance the budget, and bring Westeros’ finances under control after the gross recklessness of past governments. Once we have accomplished that, the country will be made prosperous once again.”

Brienne would say she didn’t trust Lannister as far as she could throw him, but really she suspected she’d be able to throw him a fair distance. He wasn’t a small man, but she was strong. So rather: she did not trust Lannister even so much as she trusted Petyr Baelish. Which was to say: not at all. Not even a little bit. Not even when Cat insisted she work with Baelish and he managed to avoid obsequiousness for the handful of minutes they were alone in a room together.

All things considered, she thought it likely the most they could hope for from Jaime Lannister was that he would agree to keep his head down.

She tried to force a reassuring smile for Catelyn’s sake; dropped it at the disbelieving twitch of Cat’s eyebrow, and settled for squaring her shoulders instead.

“Of course,” Brienne said. “Whatever you need.”

* * *

The day Brienne had cleared her afternoon to work with him, Jaime Lannister arrived, took one look into their cramped office two days after his dramatic walk, flicked his eyes down from her face to her toes and back up again, said, “Hells. This party really does need me.”

Before Brienne could shake herself from her stunned silence, Lannister’s phone rang, and he accepted the call, saying, “No, Addam. I’m available for the rest of the day.” Then turned on his heel and left.

After a long silence, Hunt snorted and said, “Lives up to his reputation then.”

Pod asked, “What’s his reputation?”

“That he’s an arrogant wanker,” Hunt said, and Brienne couldn’t disagree there, until he added, “To make up for a small cock,” and she rolled her eyes.

“Must cis men make everything about cocks?” Margaery asked mildly.

“No,” Hunt said. “Just when relevant.”

“Ugh,” Brienne said. “I’m going for a walk.”

* * *

Brienne rapped at the door again. The box she was balancing wasn’t heavy, but it was awkward and starting to slip from where she was pinning it to her hip. It was godsdamned early. Her favourite coffee place didn’t open for another two hours; even the piss-awful one didn’t open for another thirty minutes. She prided herself on being reliably unflappable, but she already didn’t want to be here and now she wasn’t even caffeinated. The longer she waited with the box poking painfully in her arm, the crankier she got.

She waited another thirty seconds. She thought of everything Cat stood for. Brienne reminded herself of how much she believed in her. How much she knew Cat would do for the country and how badly the country needed it…

… And when that didn’t work, she imagined the look on Humphrey sodding Wagstaff’s face when they kicked his precious Prime Minister Baratheon and the rest of their rubbish party out of power.

She knocked again. Then she leaned on the bell.

Inside, faintly and getting louder, “For the love of the fucking Seven.” Lannister threw the door open. He blinked, tipped his head up to meet Brienne’s eyes. He was in loose pyjama bottoms, and was still tugging down a white t-shirt. His hair was mussed, his stubble a golden shadow against his tan skin, and he blinked again at her blearily under his frown. He somehow _still_ looked good, damn him, and it only served to make her feel even more irritable. She hadn’t bothered overly with herself before leaving: pulled her dry hair into a small bun at the top of her neck, and she had smudges under her eyes she hadn’t tried to hide, made only more pronounced by her skin being paler than usual from her exhaustion. Meanwhile here Lannister was, having literally just rolled out of bed and still somehow looking half-way prepped for a spread in one of the magazines that made men feel badly about themselves.

“Mr Lannister,” she said crisply, and she waited not a beat before shoving past him, right into his home uninvited. She hadn’t ever been so pushy, with a representative or otherwise, and it made her feel twitchy on top of everything else. But from their brief meeting, she suspected pushy was the only thing Lannister might respond to, so she’d steeled herself for it. She said over her shoulder, “We have four hours to prepare you.”

“Ms — Tarth, is it?” Lannister said, snide, behind her. “Please. Do come in. Make yourself at home. In my home. It isn’t like I was sleeping. It’s just half fucking five in the morning. On a Saturday.”

Brienne deposited her box on a coffee table and turned to face him. He still hadn’t shut the door, holding it open with his stump, his hand a fist on his hip.

She took a breath, forced her clenched jaw loose and said, “This meeting had been scheduled for last Thursday. But you left to take a phone call from your amateur football league co-captain instead. I believe.”

Visibly startled, Lannister said, “How —”

“Catelyn did not take your original offer at face value. A great deal is known about you by our party, Mr. Lannister.”

At once, Lannister was wide awake, his expression shuttering and growing increasingly icy. Brienne spared a passing thought to wonder what he thought they might have on him before setting it aside. It was her job to ensure he didn’t make a complete arse of himself when speaking on behalf of the party. It was not her job to keep him in line, nor to ensure his private life stay private and out of the tabloids.

She despised that side of party management. To say she was content to leave it to Petyr Baelish would belie the endless and circular arguments she had had with Cat over the years that Baelish was a snivelling, parasitic shite of a man, who gave snivelling parasitic shites a bad name. Effective at his job or no. And frankly, Brienne was dubious that he was all that effective, or that someone less repellant would not be better at it.

She raised her chin and continued evenly, “We believe in your change of heart.” Lannister blinked again, then passed his hand down his face with a groan. She said, “One of the few things we do not know is how well versed you are in your new party’s policy. Which is why I’m here.” Brienne paused. Debated. Gave into her every irritable temptation. She matched his earlier tone and said, “And why I woke up at half fucking _four_ in the morning to arrive in time to ensure _you_ sound like you know what you’re talking about for your interview this morning. And not like a _feckless tosser trying to get one over on daddy_.” She pointed a finger at him. “A direct quote from your former party’s favourite tabloid.”

Lannister stared at her, his expression easing, and bizarrely, Brienne thought she might even have seen a flicker of amusement behind his irritation. He breathed out a heavy sigh and tipped his head back, saying to the ceiling, “It’s too bloody early for this.”

But he closed the door, and with clear contempt, offered her coffee.

* * *

Jaime Lannister:  
_you happy tarth?  
_ 11:00

 _Let us hope it translates to  
__party support.  
_11:01

Jaime Lannister:  
_ever heard the phrase, all work  
__& no play… how does it end?  
_11:04

 _Enjoy the rest of your weekend,  
__Mr Lannister. Monday will be busy.  
_11:05

Jaime Lannister: 🙄  
11:05

* * *

Two weeks later they were still somehow managing to ride viral clips of Lannister’s easy smiles turned haunted stare as he described, in exacting and accessible, non-political language, why the governing party’s policy on labour was financially worse for the average citizen than was Cat’s. How he had been agonized in his decision to cross the floor, but ultimately felt it was the right decision for himself, for those he represented, and — putting just a soupçon of grave emphasis on the words to convince a collectively rather cynical public — the country.

Then came the sincere recital of some of Cat’s main talking points, bracketed with pitch perfect sardonicism or irony, and voilà. The media had begrudgingly embraced him.

One of the office cork boards was covered in clippings. Many from _The Protector_ , which was almost always sympathetic to their party, but also from a few tabloids, grumpily granting that Lannister’s decision at least appeared to be based on more than some pettiness with his father. Though they still considered his new politics bollocks: despite being demonstrably better for the average Westerosi. Brienne hated the entire lot of the red top tabloids. Voice of the working class indeed.

But better yet, from a certain angle, were the memes: they were _endless_. And memes might translate to galvanization of the youth vote, and the youth vote would likely translate to power.

Margaery had laughed herself silly at one meme which had slapped text over a particularly flattering still from Lannister’s interview. It read, " _hIS JAWLINE???_ 🥵😱😭🥵💥☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️" Brienne had thought Margaery’s reaction hysteria brought on by exhaustion until Margaery had printed it out. It now hung in pride of place on the cork board behind Margaery’s desk, and Brienne was looking forward to the busy months leading to election when other things would necessitate it buried under spreadsheets and data reports.

Lannister’s unexpected popularity with the youth was vital for them, though. One of their candidates, Lyanna Mormont, was a favourite of Brienne’s but also a long shot for her Northern constituency, which was a tough win even if Lyanna wasn’t only nineteen years old. But she was a firebrand, her family name carried recognition and some fondness from the big strike days some thirty years ago. And with Lannister firing up younger voters… There was an opportunity. Brienne begrudgingly made note to suggest they capitalize on Lannister’s popularity by having him meet with Lyanna.

“Go home,” Brienne said when Podrick stifled a yawn, slumped beside her desk and flicking through a report. It was past midnight, and even Brienne’s eyes were starting to cross. She smiled when he hesitated. Said insistently, “Thanks for all your hard work today.”

Podrick’s ears went pink and he ducked his head to hide a wide smile as he grabbed his coat from the back of his chair and left with a cheery, “Good night!”

“You coddle him,” Hunt said, not looking away from his monitor.

Brienne grit her teeth. A repetitive and _stupid_ argument she had no patience for tonight. Just because Hunt had been treated like rubbish by his former employers, that he claimed _it moulded him into the man he is today_ (as though that were something to emulate, as though he hadn’t attempted the same bollocks on her after their ill-advised relationship when she first became his _superior_ ) did not matter one whit to Brienne. She sucked in a breath to argue, but Margaery shoved back from her desk with enough force that her wheelie chair brought her bumping into Brienne’s.

Margaery smiled, pushed her specs up onto the top of her head. They’d been in the office since eight a.m., and still she somehow looked like she’d stepped out of a fashion shoot for casual, girl-next-door chic. Brienne had found a spot forming on her nose when she’d managed a loo break five-and-a-half hours ago.

“Polls are holding steady,” Margaery reported, stretching her arms above her head with a satisfied smile. “Seems our tantalizing turncoat remains beneficial.”

“That’s good,” Brienne said. They’d expected some flux, but the combination of an otherwise quiet news period and the curiosity-turned-interest in Lannister’s cross was keeping them steady. “Let’s hope it lasts.”

* * *

It did not. Roose Bolton’s illegitimate son (and _who the fuck had illegitimate children in this day and age_ , Brienne had asked, and often, over the years) had landed himself in trouble with the law (and common humanity.) Brienne had urged Catelyn months ago to distance herself from the Boltons. Quite aside from her view that Roose was more a Tory in progressive clothing than a true progressive, he had a style which reminded her of the poor man’s Tywin Lannister at his most ruthless, which… well, really, that’s exactly who Roose was, and he did not fit their party’s current optics.

But Catelyn was loath to lose any support. Common sense would urge a disconnect between Roose and Ramsay’s actions (even if Brienne thought the connection rather strong) but voters were fickle. None could argue the next election wasn’t vital for the country, and Bolton was popular, for reasons far outside Brienne’s comprehension (not entirely true: for strategic reasons she understood Bolton’s constituency perhaps better than Bolton himself; rather, she longed for a day when, to gain government, they’d need not rely on his constituency filled with wealthy liberals whose progressivism was only a moral imperative when it didn't affect their stock portfolio or school district.)

Regardless, she found herself in Lannister’s living room _again_. And with her patience wearing thin. Again.

“Did you not read the packet I sent?”

By the look on Lannister’s face, his patience was also thinning.

“You send it at one a.m. Showed up here at six-thirty — thank you, by the way, for restraining yourself. When, precisely, did you imagine I had the time?”

It was a fair point, particularly knowing he often relied on a screen reader, but it was also a point she did not want to concede, so only said, “I’ll review the highlights for you.”

After a beat, Lannister’s expression cleared, and he had the gall to smirk at her as in victory. He said, “While you do that, I’ll make us espresso.”

“Don’t —”

“Make it too dark,” he interrupted with a dismissive flick of his hand over his shoulder as he walked to the kitchen. “I remember. Give us your damn highlights, Tarth.”

* * *

The first email arrived later that day.

> **From** : Jaime Lannister  
>  **To** : Brienne Tarth  
>  **Subject** : Clarification?
> 
> Tarth: can you clarify the point highlighted below?
> 
> JL.

The question was one they’d already gone over that morning. Skimming it over a second time, Brienne was fairly certain Lannister knew exactly what the point meant, as it was a policy he had seemed to actually appreciate. Still, she could not risk losing any of his current capital if he was accidentally misleading and so she responded in-depth.

Three hours later:

> **From** : Jaime Lannister  
>  **To** : Brienne Tarth  
>  **Subject** : Remind me
> 
> Tarth: can you remind me the point of this particular detail:

And he included a screenshot of one of the statistics supporting their child care plan. She felt it was fairly self explanatory, but again, better not to risk it as he headed into the town hall. She had roughly twelve things demanding her urgent attention, so responded with as much patience as she could muster.

And just as she was doing one final sweep of her email before shutting down her computer for the day:

> **From** : Jaime Lannister  
>  **To** : Brienne Tarth  
>  **Subject** : One more for you tarth
> 
> Tarth: is there much reason for the inclusion of the following?
> 
> JL.

Brienne narrowed her eyes as she skimmed the paragraph he had screenshotted into the message. It was one of the cornerstone commitments planned for the platform launch in several months: nothing was entirely locked down, there was so much time yet, but she was certain Lannister had actually been enthusiastic about this particular piece. Insofar as Lannister appeared to enthuse about anything. Perhaps, _less snide_ , was a better description.

Brienne frowned. It would take her two minutes to bang out a response, but she would miss her train, and it was late enough that she would have to wait another thirty minutes for the next one. Perhaps from the train…? But it would be better to attach the relevant documents and she had yet to manage to successfully log into the cloud server on her phone. Sighing, she set her bag aside, and hit “Reply.”

It was only when she was halfway home that she realized he had yet to thank her for any of her responses. Fucking arsehole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, the ever delightful @auntie_social made these for this fic and I love them and haven't stopped cackling over them since she sent them over ♥♥♥
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> Find me on the tumblrs @nossbean if that's your bag! 


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne opened the email and hit reply. Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard and finally she settled on dismissive. “Lannister. Have you hit your head? I can give you the details for emergency services, though I would have thought even you’d have committed those to memory.” And signed off with her usual, “Sincerely, Brienne.”
> 
> Lannister’s reply read, “Your concern for my well-being is truly touching. But no, I remain a near perfect physical specimen, luckily for you. You must know of Duncan the Tall. He’s one of yours. And it’s Jaime.” He then signed off with his name all in caps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, I am so touched by the response to the first chapter of this fic. I truly thought three people would be interested, and that actually meant me plus two others. I'm chuffed and grateful, and hope you enjoy this chapter, including an introduction to one Lyanna Mormont...!
> 
> Thank youuuu to @auntie_social for betaing this chapter and for finding ways to make it better as always (!) and also for being insightful and enthusiastic and for holding my hand through various of my angsts and overthinkings ♥! And thank youuuu too to @theunpaidcritic for being enthusiastic and holding my hand and lending her brain as I angsted some more ♥!
> 
> ETA: Oop, I forgot! as @im-auntie-social reminded me to explain, when “Dikipedia” is referenced in this chapter: so the ‘wiki’ in wikipedia is from the Hawaiian word for quick > ‘dik’ is quick in Dothraki, according to some random translation site I used like 4 months ago (if that’s wrong, pls take it up with the site I’ve now forgotten the name of 😬😅) I kept the additional i because ‘dikpedia’ sounds like something else entirely XD
> 
> **Content warnings** for this chapter: discussion of medical cannabis use, passing reference to racist and classist bias amongst law enforcement; jokes about poisoning

It wasn’t rare for Brienne to be the last one to leave — usually with Margaery if she was in the office, as tonight. Brienne glanced at the clock and thought longingly of the homemade Stormlands stew leftovers awaiting her in the fridge. Margaery rolled her chair to Brienne and plunked her elbow on Brienne’s desk. Looking over at her, Brienne raised an eyebrow as Margaery rested her chin on her fist, frowning at her.

“What is it?”

“I’ve been thinking about the whole Bolton furore,” Margaery said, distaste curling around _Bolton_ and _furore_. “And I have a plan, but you won’t like it.”

Brienne sighed. “Go on then.”

“I think I should work with Petyr Baelish for a few weeks.”

“Why?” Brienne pulled a face. Brienne did all in her power to ensure Petyr's department crossed paths as rarely as possible with theirs. There wasn’t really any need for it: they dealt in facts and possibilities. Petyr sought out the muck of politics with an exactitude that would be impressive if it weren’t so disgracefully sordid.

Margaery quirked her mouth at Brienne, then widened her eyes with false innocence Brienne had seen work on many a man enamoured with and deeply overestimating of his own importance. It did not work on Brienne, obviously, but she understood what Margaery was thinking. “Margaery…”

“Between my excellent persuasive abilities and my grandmother’s connections, you know we would be able to get ahead of these scandals. Put our house to rights, as it were.” She hesitated, then rolled her eyes. “Petyr stumbled into hiring an incredibly talented team but it isn’t like he gives them the latitude to demonstrate it. He won’t be able to dismiss me so easily — or them, while I’m there, for that matter.”

Brienne smiled slightly despite herself. Baelish’s team was made up of extremely competent young women who were almost entirely kept in the shadows, and indeed, if it weren’t for Brienne and Margaery both making a point of it, she doubted she’d know any of the women’s names. And even so, when information did slither out of his department, all memos were written in the first person singular, and signed off simply “Petyr Baelish.” Brienne had heard he'd once gone by the nickname Littlefinger, and it seemed he believed the smallest finger ought to be commended for the hand's work. Margaery had worked briefly with Baelish early in her career, and made the switch to policy for which Brienne was grateful. But Baelish remained a thorn in Margaery’s side, and she attempted to poach people away from him at least once a month.

Brienne’s smile faded. “I just… There’s work we can do here, Margaery. That side of things…”

“It’s politics, Brienne. I know you don’t like it, but it’s a necessary evil.”

She sighed. She hated that mentality. “Our department doesn’t need to be involved.” Margaery watched her for a breath before frowning. They had never seen eye-to-eye on this. Brienne offered, “What if I suggest you work with Brynden on crisis management training for staff?”

Margaery blew out a long breath, then pasted a smile on her face. The one Brienne knew she used when she thought someone was being unnecessarily difficult. She’d never been on the receiving end before. Did not particularly like it.

“All right,” Margaery said agreeably. “It’s a start.”

* * *

With the arraignment of Ramsay Bolton — Brienne refused to name him Snow — scheduled, Lannister was called upon again. For once it was Lannister’s schedule rather than Brienne’s which dictated the godsforsaken hour for this briefing. Brienne had been nursing a grudge against Lannister for the constant barrage of (frankly, increasingly inane) questions she now suspected were some vindictive form of revenge for the early mornings. The last one he’d sent cut off mid-sentence, for fuck’s sake. She was in no mood for him, really, but some of her aggravation shifted when he answered the door and she was met with the scent of coffee. Stepping inside, it pervaded his flat and she breathed deep.

Lannister smirked at her, said, “I’ll get you a cup then, shall I?”

Brienne only nodded curtly, and inexplicably his smirk grew. He gestured her into his living room. Brienne set her things down.

He’d also arranged pastries, which served to dissipate more of Brienne’s frustration. She doubted it had anything to do with her; he had to eat too, after all, and had probably only got enough for the two of them because even he wasn’t _that_ self-centred. Still, she very nearly found herself thinking him sweet, which was trite. She was just tired, that was all.

She spotted on the plate several blueberry tarts and her mouth watered at the sight. He couldn’t have known she favoured them, but still, perhaps... he _wasn’t_ quite as bad as all that.

Then Lannister sat down on his sofa across from her and said, testy, “This is the third time this has happened, Tarth. Am I faced with an eternity of horrifically early policy meetings with you?”

Brienne grit her teeth, and counted to ten, then twenty, then fifty, as she took a sip from the mug he handed her. It was exactly as she liked it, which flooded her with a different kind of annoyance with him. He couldn’t be both a complete knobber _and_ one of those people who remembered how people took their drinks as though he cared. She breathed out slowly through her nose, and commended herself that her tone was mostly even as she answered him. “We’re trying to solidify your new reputation as Jaime ‘ _from each according to their ability, to each according to their needs_ ’ Lannister. One hopes you’ll take to it rather sooner than the end of days, but I’m not holding my breath.”

It wasn’t her best line, and wasn’t entirely fair to the work he’d done, but he was aggravating and she’d be better once the caffeine hit. In the meantime, Lannister tilted his head. His irritation melted into mischief which crinkled the corners of his eyes. He snagged a pastry off the plate and said, “What’s my current nickname then? Go on. I know you’ve got one.”

Brienne balked, and when his mouth curved into an easy smile, she narrowed her eyes and felt her cheeks heat. Which was — inexplicable. She flushed at the drop of a hat, terrible for a career in politics, and this must obviously be a flush of irritation. She had never previously flushed for such a thing, but it was true that he was unacceptably good-looking, the inviting stretch of his lips and the warmth at the edges of his eyes being undermined only just by the rather significant hindrance of his personality.

She didn’t actually have any nickname for him, rather just a slurry of curse words, but she would not let him best her. She unstuck her tongue, said, “Jaime _royal pain in my arse_ Lannister.”

She nearly winced; not at all as pithy as she’d have liked. Still he laughed, a full and enticing sound which Brienne resolutely did not like. Nor did she like the honey warmth in his voice as he spoke her sentiments aloud, “Not exactly pithy, Tarth.” She glared at him, and he cheerfully continued, “You also clearly just made that up. And I’m rich, not royal. If I were, would I be here? I didn’t think you progressives went in for the monarchy.”

An oversimplification, but, “You’re a progressive now, too, Mr. Lannister,” Brienne reminded him tartly.

He crooked a new smile at her, one which she couldn’t read but which felt strangely private, and said, “Surely by now you can call me Jaime.”

* * *

The content of his emails changed after that morning. At first, Brienne was grateful: most of the messages she could largely ignore, only responding when she thought there might be some risk of losing whatever inexplicable good feelings she appeared to have won from him, fearing a return to emails she actually had to expend time and brain power to respond.

The new subject matter did occasionally amuse her, not that she would ever let him know that. In amongst genuine questions, he seemed to decide it was a new mission to find an appropriate nickname for her. _Appropriate_ seemed to change definitions depending on the day and his mood. Sometimes borderline insulting, such as when he referred to her as a _walking carpet_ , in apparent reference to a character in a popular sci-fi film series; Brienne opted to presume he considered her formidable and loyal, rather than whatever else he might have been implying. More often they were childish, the few messages in which he referred to her as _bean_ , as short for _stringbean_ per her height, being a prime example. Most baffling were the ones that neared complimentary: she had made the mistake of mentioning to him about the university-level debate competition she had won while still completing A-Levels. He had responded wryly, _Not surprised in the slightest that you've always been argumentative_ , but then spent the next week calling her _bright Brienne_. She wondered vaguely what he might say if she told him she had actually won against his former colleague and her professional rival, Ser Humphrey Wagstaff.

Eventually he landed on one which, for reasons outside Brienne’s understanding, seemed to entertain him. It started with an e-mail that arrived before she even got to the office. The subject line read, “i’ve got it,” and Brienne accidentally muttered out loud on the train, “I doubt it.”

The body only read, “Duncan.”

She stared at it. She was not going to ask. She wasn’t.

She _was not_.

Brienne tapped back out of her email. She resolutely opened her news app, and scrolled, and scrolled, and scrolled —

And scrolled. Finally conceding to herself that she was not focussing at all and she sighed out gustily.

She opened the email and hit reply. Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard and finally she settled on dismissive. “Lannister. Have you hit your head? I can give you the details for emergency services, though I would have thought even you’d have committed those to memory.” And signed off with her usual, “Sincerely, Brienne.”

It was enough to free up her mind, and she was hopping off the train, eager to return to the article she was reading about a Lyseni who was being sued by, as far as she could tell, a random Lyseni lawyer for apparently mocking the national anthem, when her email notification pinged. She made herself finish the article before moving back to the email application.

Lannister’s reply read, “Your concern for my well-being is truly touching. But no, I remain a near perfect physical specimen, luckily for you. You must know of Duncan the Tall. He’s one of yours. And it’s Jaime.” He then signed off with his name all in caps.

Brienne rolled her eyes. The walk to the party offices was only a couple of blocks and she did not want this distracting her through the day. She paused to lean against a wall of one of the government buildings, and hit reply.

“Lannister. Of course I know of Duncan the Tall. His relevance is what eludes me. If not a head injury, perhaps you’ve ingested something illicit? No need to respond; it’s best I don’t know. I would advise you take yourself directly to the hospital. Good day, Brienne.”

She ought to have known it wouldn’t stop there. Meetings kept her busy most of the morning, and she didn’t spot Lannister’s response until she’d gone through several more pressing emails.

“Listen, Dunc,” it began. “Firstly: Any marijuana I may or may not ingest would only ever happen at night to facilitate sleep, its effects passed by morning. Were it to exist, it also would have been purchased legally in Braavos. That our border control may not be as thorough for certain privileged citizens as perhaps it is meant to be would, hypothetically, be no fault of mine. Do explain to me why marijuana is illegal in Westeros? I suspect I need not list for you its many and varied medicinal benefits, particularly for veterans. Nor the way our law enforcement target certain citizens over others. Remind me, I can’t recall it as an issue on Cat’s noble, for-the-people, manifesto. Perhaps it can be added. Shall I email her directly, do you think?”

Brienne breathed out heavily through her nose and closed her eyes, wondering if there was much point in deleting the message. She was certain there was considerably more incriminating than this on the party servers but she really wished it wasn’t on her part of it. Margaery may know what to do with this, but for reasons she couldn’t name, she wanted to keep the messages between her and Jaime private.

Opening her eyes and returning to the message, he continued, “Secondly: Getting back to Duncan the Tall. Your ancestor outstretched even you, bean, did you know? Seven foot. assuming that giant was born and raised on your quaint isle, what do they put in the water?” Already he had the details wrong, but she refused to engage. “Regardless, you are nothing if not a giant, though perhaps lapsed when compared to the original Duncan. I’ve found your nickname, Dunc. You ought to embrace your heritage. JAIME.”

She closed the email when Podrick came over to her, and got distracted by a disagreement which expanded to include the entire office about the party’s stance on prison reform (or actually, abolition, though that specific word was not to be seen on any official party documentation; thus, the disagreement: where lies the ethical line in tempering ultimate goals for the sake of as-yet-skeptical voters?) and somehow ended up on sustainable practices of waste management. Policy conversations would have once served to remind Brienne exactly why she’d wanted to work in politics in the first place, but the political calculus resulting in ethical compromise left her feeling cold. By the time lunch rolled around, she was ready for a break.

Margaery took her and Podrick out for lunch: it was cold, the season only starting to turn, and so Marg insisted they go to the local Northern pub. The afternoon passed in something of a starchy, gravy-soaked haze.

Before heading home, Brienne did a final sweep of her emails and remembered the one from Jaime. She clicked it open, scanned it again. She side-stepped the question of contacting Cat about marijuana, saying instead, “Jaime. If you have particular concerns about our crime and related enforcement policies, I can direct you to my colleague, Hyle Hunt. He is our legal expert and I’ve no doubt Hunt would enjoy the discussion.” She honestly was not certain who would infuriate who more. “As to the rest, I think you’ll find my name is perfectly adequate. Admittedly, it is unlikely the name I’d have chosen for myself, but it is the only one I’ll respond to. Good night, Lannister. Sincerely, Brienne.”

The next message came in overnight and read, “You called me Jaime — you can’t go back to Lannister after that. What’s wrong with Brienne?”

When Brienne didn’t respond — in part deliberately: she regretted her comments on her name, feeling uncomfortably exposed when he asked about it, but mostly due to a busy day as they supported the prep for an announcement of the candidate for Oldtown West — she had two emails waiting for her the next day.

The first read, “Come on, Cancan. You can’t leave me waiting, otherwise I might need to actually phone you to get my answers. You do not want that. Jaime.” And the next was timestamped only a few minutes later: “Hells. Cancan was not up to my usual standards. Forget I said it, Dunc.”

Brienne, facing another busy day, thumbed off a fast response. “I’d say it was just about your usual standard actually.”

She was relieved when finally she opened Jaime’s next email to find he had essentially copied the Dikipedia entry for Duncan the Tall with annotated questions about its veracity. She responded with a list of history professors her department sometimes worked with, and signed off by saying, “In support of your clear determination to fixate on obscure history, and with the long-shot hope you'll leave me out of it.”

* * *

Lyanna Mormont was only nineteen, but was whip smart, had an astonishing grasp on the issues most pressing in her constituency, the ability to speak clearly on them, and had more passion than most of her opponents combined.

On the other hand, she was only nineteen.

She had not dressed for the occasion. She had thick eyeliner on, her hair mussed with what must be an ungodsly amount of hair spray, her black jeans ripped, and leather jacket well-worn. Lyanna’s shirt was old, baggy, with some faded art which depicted the apocryphal Tully victory over the Lannisters. A fish whipping its tail across the face of a gruesomely dying lion. The lion’s mouth was open in a silent roar and it bled crimson turned gold, which other fish were collecting, looking rather pleased with themselves.

It was… quite creative. And _very_ graphic. Where she had even procured it, Brienne couldn’t begin to imagine. Was it some kind of Northerner thing?

Privately, Brienne admitted punk suited her. And undoubtedly Lyanna was making clear her allegiances. There must surely be some Mormont bear equivalent; selecting Tully fish was quite loud of her. Brienne could respect the sentiment, if it was significantly undiplomatic. But it wasn’t the look of a politician, and nor was her expression. She had looked decidedly suspicious when Brienne arrived — which stung. They’d met on a handful of occasions and Brienne had thought they’d got on.

Though it could be worse. Lyanna eyed Jaime with blatant loathing when he entered the room.

Brienne offered silent thanks to Margaery for her tactful suggestion they anticipate this meeting go poorly, and to therefore arrange it take place privately and without the attendance of any media or photographers.

Brienne glanced at Jaime, there was a nearly imperceptible hitch to his stride when he saw Lyanna’s expression. His eyes flicked to her t-shirt, and his mouth twitched. As though he felt Brienne’s gaze on him, he turned his head, met her look, eyes sparkling with mirth. He looked away, smoothing his expression again as he took his seat.

For what had to have been the sixth time that morning, Brienne grumbled to herself that this type of thing wasn't even her job, and regretted agreeing to facilitate this meeting. Even if it had been her idea.

Taking a deep breath, she gestured for Pod to step closer. “Before we get started, would either of you like anything?”

“Aye,” Lyanna said darkly, watching Jaime as she spoke. “Tears of Lys.”

_Hells_.

Before Brienne could say anything, Jaime said thoughtfully, “Tears of Lys is messy and takes a long time.” He leaned back in his chair. “Better to use strangler. Grim, but quick.”

Brienne almost swallowed her tongue.

Lyanna on the other hand, narrowed her eyes at him, then turned to Pod. “Strangler then.”

“Uh,” Pod said, looking helplessly at Brienne. “I don’t think —”

“Three teas, please,” Brienne interrupted. They were both making prats of themselves, and neither had dietary restrictions as pertained to tea, so she’d make this easy on Podrick. Even if she had half a mind to ask for something stronger for herself. “Builders. One milk, one sugar in each.”

“I don’t take —”

“Another sug —”

“ _Go_ , Podrick,” Brienne said over their protests and Pod exited hastily. She turned her scowl on them. “You may request your own drinks when you behave like professional adults.”

Jaime smirked openly while Lyanna looked mutinous. Then she took a huffy breath, straightened in her seat.

“Fine. Let’s get this done.” She pointed a finger at Jaime. “You Lannisters have benefited off the backs of Northerners’ labour and resources for centuries. Our current problems have direct lines to acts taken by your ancestors and, bloody more to the point, the exploitative policies perpetuated by your family through government now. You think crossing the floor erases that?” She adopted a fair approximation of a posh southern accent for her last sortie, “I cordially invite you to go fucking fuck yourself.”

“Gods,” Brienne muttered. Given her druthers, she would actually agree with Lyanna. It wasn’t only the Lannisters, of course. And from their meetings, it was clear Jaime had little time for the ridiculous and cruel machinations of his family or his former party. How he had been politically entangled with them in the first place remained a mystery she rarely entertained but which frustrated her when she did. However none of that altered the fact that the North suffered while the South prospered, and all of it came down to forceful domination, exploitation, and the pursuit of policies to permit it. That also wasn’t helpful here, now. “Ms. Mormont, please —”

“It’s fine,” Jaime interrupted. Brienne looked at him and he quirked his mouth at her. “She’s right.”

Lyanna narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m _right_?”

He rolled his eyes. “Of course you are.” Lyanna’s expression went fierce with mistrust and Jaime shrugged. “Obviously I can’t go back in time to prevent my ancestors from being godsawful to yours. But there are things I can do now. Which is why I’m here.”

“Why now?” Lyanna demanded, not unfairly in Brienne’s view. “You’ve been a sitting MP for —”

“Nearly seven years, yes I am aware. I’m not saying I’m blameless,” he said, and his tone was still just this side of dry, but Brienne thought she heard something bitter beneath it. “I’ve come round.”

Brienne anticipated Lyanna to press the point, had half a mind to do it herself. Instead, Lyanna said, “What’re you proposing then?”

He smiled. Not a charming tilt of the mouth. This was a smile of all teeth: a slash of white between pink lips, eyes glittering under a vindictive brow. His body was still languid in his seat, but there was something coiled, and predatory about his apparent ease. Jaime tossed his head, and with short, carefully styled hair, he still gave the impression he was shaking out his mane. It was absurd, and shouldn’t have worked, and yet a thrill coursed down Brienne’s spine to see him.

“Oh, I’m picturing small things mostly. Changing our tax policy. Making it aggressive on the wealthy. Close their little loopholes. Repeal their innumerable credits. Prevent the kind of monetary maneuvering only the most snivelling of morally corrupt shites could manage. Strip them of all their finances and their assets, leaving only what they need to survive. Focus the sudden increase in tax revenue on what matters. Redistribution. Reallocation to the social services and support programmes the Tories decimated. Make sure the people are safe. That they’re cared for. Reforge our infrastructure so our people can thrive. Make abundantly clear to avaricious fucks who get their jollies by putting their heel to the neck of those vulnerable to them that we will route them out and leave them kings of only their own piss and ashes.”

Brienne shivered, struggling to suppress a respondent coursing surge of bloodlust. There was something about him like this, she thought. She had long stopped believing in the power of a single individual’s ability to turn the tides of a political battle, but the way Jaime had spoken, the way he nearly blazed now… She would follow him into the fray without second thought, and believe nothing less than complete annihilation of the enemy.

Jaime flicked a glance her way. Paused, turned his head to look at her fully, meeting Brienne’s eyes. She couldn't look away: his eyes glittered, their shade of green put her in mind of the lush promise of spring. His smile had gone, replaced by an expression so serious she nearly ached to see it. She couldn’t make sense of him. He was incredibly clever, that she had known. And arrogant; Jaime need only exhale to make clear the high opinion he had of himself. But when he wasn’t pestering her over email, he listened with an intensity which belied his apparent insouciance, asked insightful questions, offered astute philosophical arguments, could turn a complex policy into something accurate but bite-sized and accessible for people who didn’t inhale politics or speak the relevant jargon. So: the vast majority of people, living normal lives instead of whatever the hells it was she and everyone else in politics did with themselves. She hadn’t heard him speak of social services or support systems, at least not outside the bounds of what may have come up in the natural course of their discussion. And his references to keeping people safe, cared for — she wondered again, more urgently, what had brought him here. Much of the work Brienne had done with Jaime so far had been preparing him not really for work as a Progressive Alliance MP, but rather relating to bids to divert public attention away from the latest idiotic scandal one of their ministers had bumbled into. Jaime had done that work well. But it hadn’t struck Brienne until this moment how galvanizing he might be, were he encouraged more freedom.

Her heart flipped at the prospect, in her belly, a yearning stirred that she’d forgot in the daily grind, for that possible future they might one day make. That they were meant to be preparing and fighting for, every day.

How was it a cynical Tory turncoat might remind her?

It must only have been a beat that they watched one another, but Jaime twitched an eyebrow at her, questioning, one corner of his mouth tugging down— all at once she realized she’d been staring, and hadn’t a clue what her face had been doing while she did. Her cheeks heating, she looked quickly away and back towards Lyanna.

Lyanna was searching his face: after a beat, her expression flashed, a mirror of his, before she contorted it back into a scowl, looking away and crossing her arms over her chest. “I s’pose we can talk, then,” she said huffily.

Jaime looked at Brienne again as he leaned back in his chair. The smile he offered now had echoes of his earlier, but was more self-satisfied. It was punctuated by a waggle of eyebrows though, ruining any lingering effect and Brienne rolled her eyes. His grin widened.

“Do I get to order my own tea, now?” he asked lightly, and Brienne let out a long breath when Lyanna turned to her, equally expectant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So @auntie_social ALSO MADE this meme for this fic which made me laugh out loud ♥ ♥ ♥!
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
>   
> @auntie_social is also to thank for the _walking carpet_ reference for you Star Wars fans, hehe
> 
>  **ETA:** I was remiss in not mentioning that Lyanna here is loosely based, or loosely referencing maybe, the spectacular Mhairi Black, a Scottish National Party MP who unseated her Labour opponent for a seat in the House of Commons at the age of 20 in 2015. She’s been re-elected twice since then (and why the UK has had 3 elections in 5 years... let’s not talk about it.) She is admittedly less angry than Lyanna (at least publicly) but I reckon Lyanna is more measured in public, too. I very much recommend giving Mhairi’s 2016 speech to the Commons against Britain’s nuclear defence program (Trident) [a listen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BWEI8tSdRZo&ab_channel=SkyEcho). (I don't believe there are content warnings for this speech, but if anyone has a listen and I've missed something, please let me know and I'll add a flag!)  
>  **ETA2:** Another thing I forgot...! When Brienne reads an article about a Lyseni who was being sued by another random Lyseni for the charge of ‘mocking the national anthem’: this was an actual story I came across months ago, threw in my notes for this fic, and then subsequently forgot which nation took their national anthem too seriously (many, probably, but who enough for citizens to sue about it...?) if anyone happens to know, feel free to share that news so we can all look upon this incident with shared bafflement and a small measure of judgement. And another **eta** to this eta! The very lovely @ImberReader found the story! T’was a Croatian case of suing about the national anthem! [More here](https://www.bbc.com/news/av/world-europe-51593984)


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was only when they’d finished eating that Brienne opened Jaime's response. One line, “I warned you about working too hard, saph,” with an attachment. Brienne glanced at her colleagues, and, satisfied they were focussed on their own screens, she opened it. It was a photo, and Brienne didn't know what to make of the fact she could so readily recognize it taken from the couch in his living room. It centred his coffee table, and the television behind. His socked feet were propped up on the table, a mug beside them, with the telly on in the background. It was deeply aggravating that the man could make socked feet somehow attractive, but more than that, something a little like longing settled behind her breastbone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rightie! This chapter is about twice as long as I'd intended! Please do be mindful of the chapter warnings on this one ♥ Also expect the chapter count to rise a bit, as Jaime has decided he wants POV chapters, and I had not accounted for that when outlining originally! I'll be working that out with him in the next little while, and should have an accurate count with next update (which is indeed Jaime's first POV chapter).
> 
> So I admit I had intended to get this out a lot sooner, but the whole 2020 of it all caught up to me and much of October was spent by me playing video games and mostly avoiding other humans. To underline where I'm at, I very, very nearly put all this in the summary box, foof. Anyway, in view of that, I just wanted to say that I am sending out warm vibes to you reading this, yes very specifically you ♥ Wherever you are and _how_ ever you are, I'm hoping the best for you always, and want you to know that this random internet stranger believes in you.
> 
> A handful of amazing humans helped me on this one and I am in all ways so ridiculously grateful for so many things! @auntie_social who always finds ways to make the writing better, and who is enthusiastic and supportive through even my most mundane and niche of overthinkings ♥ @theunpaidcritic who readily held my hand once again, giving such thoughtful and bolstering comments, and reassuring me through my fretting ♥ and @djelibeybi who first chatted through the arc of this chapter with me weeks ago, and who then kindly lent me even more of her time and insights alongside generous hand-holding ♥ Honestly I've written and re-written this thank you several times with nothing feeling quite like it conveys everything I mean to, but just: you're all so talented and clever and funny and enthusiastic and generous, and working with you is such a joy. Thank you 💕💕💕
> 
> There is also a fair bit of Formatting with a capital F in this chapter, so if anything's gone a bit wonky, please let me know! (Although due to aforementioned formatting, things may persist in looking a little odd on mobile, apologies!) Thank you <3
> 
> **Content warnings for this chapter:** gendered cyber harassment, and references to past bullying/abuse, passing reference to climate change.

> **From:** Jaime Lannister  
>  **To:** Brienne Tarth  
>  **Subject:** dunc: your thoughts pls
> 
> don’t you think its a shame sexst pillocks have riuned some of the best nicknames?
> 
> JAIME.

She knew she shouldn’t respond. Really, it was an absurd premise he had no chance of defending. But… she couldn’t seem to focus on the news, and she could do with the distraction on her commute. Brienne took a deep breath, and responded: “Lannister. I know I’ll regret this, but do expand. Such as what?”

The respondent list was about as bad as she anticipated. Despite her interest in history, even she wouldn’t want terms like, “maiden” and “wench” brought back into common, somehow un-gendered parlance, never mind the twee, casual usage of diminutives or terms like “old bat” in some bizarre bid to reclaim them as terms of endearment for women. She appreciated, she supposed, that he tried, perhaps, but she could not figure the feminist argument in that one.

Half her brain on that, she then made the mistake of offering that she didn’t think “MILF” or “cougar” were _necessarily_ offensive, to which he of course responded, “No? I’ll remember you said that.”

Otherwise, her spare moments throughout the day were spent in an increasingly ridiculous back-and-forth, in which she grew certain Jaime kept saying the things he knew might rile her. Even with that in mind, it was… Well. It was... kind of... fun. And it was a welcome distraction from the ongoing frustrations of convincing the representative from White Harbour to agree to the more restrictive new terms of their fishery policy. They all sympathized, of course, that White Harbour’s main trade was fish. But with things going the way they were in the Bite and into the Shivering Sea, if fishing wasn’t seriously curtailed, White Harbour might have no economy whatsoever within the next twenty years.

So, Jaime’s arguments made her smile, made her feel less like this job could amount to hollering at their own brick walls (why, she often wondered, didn’t representatives spend their very limited time and energy working with the party to seek long term solutions rather than rag on the issues as though Brienne and her team had somehow orchestrated the steep decline in fish populations, instead of the decades of extreme overfishing and the ever looming concerns about the environment generally?)

Around the time Podrick took their dinner orders, her team preparing to be stuck in for the evening as policy negotiations continued, Brienne settled in to reply to Jaime’s latest — “How about sapphire for a nickname, dunc? Not particularly gendered” — Margaery whistled for her attention. Brienne looked over to find her leaning back in her chair, her hands behind her head. The room was empty besides them; Brienne hadn’t noticed the others leave.

“You going to share who’s making you smile and laugh over there, Bee?” she asked, raising an eyebrow and smiling suggestively.

“I —” Damn her cheeks and their traitorous flush. “It’s just an email from my brother,” she landed on.

Margaery’s eyes narrowed and she said evenly, “Your brother has been making you smile all day?”

“Yes,” Brienne said, raising her chin. She looked around them deliberately, then asked, “Where is everyone?”

To this, Margaery smirked. “Well, while you were being distracted by _your brother_ , Pod went to fetch us dinner —”

“I know that,” Brienne said, perhaps a little too forcefully given Margaery’s smirk deepened.

“The rest are off on various breaks. Loo, smoke. Stretching legs, etcetera. Alas, not all of us have such entertaining family members to justify staying at our desks.”

Before Brienne could respond to this, Hyle came back in and Margaery cleared her expression. Far be it from Brienne to ever be grateful to Hunt, but she was grateful Margaery was mindful enough not to say anything teasing in his presence.

For his part, Hyle only groaned. “Pod’s not back yet? Stranger’s cock. How long does it take to get sandwiches?”

“How d’you know the Stranger has a cock?” Margaery asked.

“You rather I said tits?”

“I’d rather you said nothing at all, ever, honestly,” Margaery replied blithely.

Brienne turned back to her computer as they bickered, writing quickly to Jaime, “Piss off, I have to work.”

It was only when they’d finished eating that Brienne opened his response. One line, “I warned you about working too hard, saph,” with an attachment. Brienne glanced at her colleagues, and, satisfied they were focussed on their own screens, she opened it. It was a photo, and Brienne didn't know what to make of the fact she could so readily recognize it taken from the couch in his living room. It centred his coffee table, and the television behind. His socked feet were propped up on the table, a mug beside them, with the telly on in the background. It was deeply aggravating that the man could make socked feet somehow attractive, but more than that, something a little like longing settled behind her breastbone.

She dismissed it as wanting the time to watch aimless hours of telly, to have a quiet moment to enjoy wine without feeling the clamour of a hundred to-do list items, and replied only with “Arse.” And left his response un-read until the following morning.

* * *

_Interview transcript: Westeros Broadcasting Corporation, Radio4: Political Thinking with Pycelle Maesterson.  
Portion: Interview with Mister Jaime Lannister, of the Official Opposition_

**Pycelle Maesterson** : If you’ll permit me to say, Mr Lannister, you are better prepared than many I interview from your professional cohort. Indeed, better than when you were still a member of your former party.

**Jaime Lannister** : I am, aren’t I? I wish I could take all the credit. Some goes — ah, but why pretend when you know my record? My preparedness is very much thanks to Saph — the party’s excellent lead policy wonk. And the person tasked with bringing me into the fold. She took to it with alacrity. And I was just as ready, of course.

**Maesterson** : That is in evidence, yes. I had believed I was well acquainted with the Progressive Alliance wonks. But I do not recall a Saph…?

**Lannister** : Short for sapphire. It’s a nickname. Saph originates from Tarth —

**Maesterson** : Ah yes, the Sapphire Isle. Famed for the colour of its waters.

**Lannister** : The very one. Saph’s eyes match the colour of those self-same astonishing waters. Though her glare is impressive: stern enough to tame a bear.

**Maesterson** : [a pause] Mr Lannister… Do understand I rarely engage in frivolous gossip. But there had been some rumours circulating of romance in your life. Could this be…?

**Lannister** : [laughs] No. I’m far too busy for that. I work hard representing my constituency and holding the government’s feet to the fire. This is more an attempt to — butter up an exacting instructor. Speaking of whom, I imagine Ms Tarth is already drafting a strongly worded email the longer I discuss her and not our party’s excellent policy on the Health Service. Catelyn Stark has committed…

* * *

The first email arrived at 06:03.

For the first time that week, Brienne had managed to find time to go to the pool. When grabbing her shampoo and conditioner after swimming her customary mile and before hopping into the shower, she checked her phone, as was habit, just in case.

She had 32 text messages, 112 new emails. In the last hour.

Still dripping, she quickly wiped down her face and clumsily patted her hands dry, clutching her towel to her chest. About to swipe open the texts, the subject line of one of the emails caught her attention. She thumbed open her inbox.

> **From:** Tyrell, Margaery  
>  **Subject:** DON’T WORRY ABOUT THIS BRIENNE. | Re: Sapphires indeed
> 
> **From:** Stark, Catelyn  
>  **Subject:** Chin up. He knows you’re better. Media blackout. We’ll speak this aftn. Re: Sap…
> 
> **From:** Mormont, Lyanna  
>  **Subject:** hes a fucking shite-eating coward. a lavvy-headed wankstank. he can get tae fu…
> 
> **From:** Martell, Oberyn  
>  **Subject:** B: you are a beacon to all of us every day. This despicable excuse of a man d…
> 
> **From:** jon.arryn@wbc.co.we  
>  **Subject:** Request for comment | Re: Sapphires indeed
> 
> **From:** varys@dailyraven.co.we  
>  **Subject:** Re: Sapphires indeed request for comment
> 
> **From:** martell.elia@theprotector.co.we  
>  **Subject:** Re: Sapphires indeed | Request for interview re gendered harassment
> 
> **From:** Payne, Podrick  
>  **Subject:** Re: Sapphires indeed [29 messages]

  
She drew a deep breath, her thumb trembling as she opened the message from Podrick.

> Brienne — I hope you don’t mind my saying, but you’re the best employer I’ve ever had, and cleverer than anyone I’ve ever met. I admire how kind and generous you are. I still think often about how you took me with you to Tarth for Smithsnight dinner last year. It made such a difference to me, when I was used to being alone. I hope to live up to your example, making not just politics but everywhere better.
> 
> Sincerely,
> 
> Podrick Payne
> 
> __________________________
> 
> **From:** Wagstaff, Humphrey Ser  
>  **To:** All-Party  
>  **Subject:** Sapphires indeed
> 
> Is it _tame_ , or rather _tempt_?
> 
> No. Not even a bear.

  
There was a photo attachment.

Her stomach dropped. Goose pimples erupted, chasing across her skin, and all she wore was a swimsuit, feeling far, far too exposed. Gods, she should be past the point where Wagstaff might frighten her — she had had the best of him since they’d met. And yet, her hand shook, thumb hovering over the attachment.

They had first met when she was sixteen. She had been granted special dispensation to participate in a university-level debate competition, and had been so proud, and so nervous. Feeling gangling and enormous in her body, thinking herself even uglier than she actually was as a teenage girl, and in a godsawful dress bought at the last minute making it all worse. Wagstaff, several years older than Brienne and attending one of the top unis on the continent, had zeroed in on her. He was a bully, none of his taunts were anything she hadn’t heard before — questioning everything from her gender to her intelligence — and only when he laughingly said to his friends that girls couldn’t keep up in debate, that she ought to know her place and fetch him a bacon buttie, did Brienne snap. Or, at least, what amounted to snapping for a sixteen year old who was painfully awkward in her skin and only just beginning to trust the skills she was developing in her mind.

First she had muttered it, and then at Wagstaff’s taunting, “What was that?” Brienne remembered setting her jaw against the flames on her cheeks as he went on, “You can’t even speak a sentence here. How will you do anything worthwhile in _there_?”

She forced herself over to him then, ignoring her father’s reproving, “ _Brienne_ ,” and lowered her face to meet his eyes. Her voice may have still been only just above a whisper, but she’d managed it. “I’ll concede if you actually manage to place above me.”

He and his friends had laughed, of course. Laughed as her father led her away, back to Gall who flipped Wagstaff off.

Then laughed as she rose through the ranks. Then laughed again, as she competed against him in the third-to-last round.

And Brienne only focused, and kept her head, and by the end, it was Brienne who won. She forgot about her godsawful dress and her crooked teeth, her mismatched features and her big body, and she held her head high as they met in between the debate podiums, shook hands as was dictated by custom. Made no response as Wagstaff turned purple, a cruel glint in his eye he couldn’t act on before he was ushered off to wherever it was the losers were asked to wait.

It was only later that night, when her father watched her keenly and popped open a bottle of something light and bubbling, her brother rubbing his hand through her hair, and her sisters dancing around the table hollering, that Brienne had let herself grin.

Heart in her throat, Brienne straightened her shoulders, kept her towel close, and tapped open the attachment.

It was a picture from the debate finals, of her in that dress. She clutched the trophy, first place, but no one would notice that. They would only see her, cringing as the camera flashed bright and washed her out even more, leaving her nose red and the rest of her tall, and awkward, and ugly, and only sixteen.

She didn’t want to resent that girl: that girl on that day had set her on this path. But still, some part of her which she thought would never leave her, itched with humiliation and burned with resentment.

It seemed all of her colleagues across all parties and media organizations bore witness. She could only presume that soon, if not already, the entire country would, too.

* * *

Brienne squared her shoulders and pressed the door to the office open. It went quiet immediately, all heads swivelling towards her. She had rehearsed on the train what to say, knew exactly what tone to strike, but the looks of outrage on all their faces made her throat tight, her eyes burn, and she promptly forgot all of it.

Of all the people to break the silence, Hyle said, “I’m glad you’re here, Brienne. Can you take a look at this for me? Something’s not working in paragraph three.”

It broke the tension. As she made her way to Hunt’s side, each of her team gave her bolstering, angry or sympathetic looks, and then they got on with it.

Margaery took her to lunch. She spent the whole time slagging off Wagstaff which seemed to make Margaery feel better but didn’t particularly do anything for Brienne. Still. It was nice to know she cared so deeply.

In the afternoon, Catelyn called from Dorne. “He’s a prick, Brienne,” she said. “Threatened by how good you are at your job.”

“I know,” Brienne said slowly. “I just wish I wasn’t in the middle of —”

“Agreed. If Lannister had simply resisted being a condescending — Hang on.” Cat covered the mouthpiece before Brienne could say anything, but that assessment wasn’t fair, they all knew Wagstaff was a rank shite. The sapphire thing wasn't even really about her eyes, how absurd. _Condescending_ wasn’t the word. _Muppet_ may have been an apt description, if Wagstaff hadn’t involved himself. It had been obvious Jaime was taking the piss by his next comment about her glare. Brienne could hear muffled voices, the familiar slide of fabric over the mic, then Cat came back, “Brienne —”

“Jaime isn’t to blame,” Brienne interrupted. She didn’t particularly want to talk about any of this, particularly didn’t want to linger on discussion of Jaime, who hadn’t been in touch at all — she didn’t care one way or the other, of course; it was only. Unusual. And she had become accustomed to finding messages from him in her inbox. Pestering her. Really she ought to be grateful for his silence; she had been busy enough as it was, even before all this — but nonetheless felt compelled to say, “Wagstaff’s been after me for years. He found the opening he’d been skulking around for.”

After a brief pause, “If you say so,” was all Cat said.

Brienne’s ears rang. Margaery hadn’t listened to her, but at least that had been well-intentioned ranting on her part; now Cat wasn’t listening to her, and Cat _knew_ how much of a nightmare this would be for her —

“What I was going to say,” Cat went on, sounding distracted, “I’m going to put you on with Loras. He’ll walk you through our response.”

Brienne reminded herself that Catelyn was busy, it wasn’t a blow-off, even if it stung just exactly like one.

Brienne ducked out of the office, into a blessedly lockable broom closet, and spent the next hour on the phone with Loras, one of their top comms officers. By the end, she felt wrung out and was thinking longingly of her sofa, the bottle of white she’d bought two days earlier, and ordering half the menu from the Dornish place down the block from her flat. For the first time in six years, Brienne left work early, and took a taxi home.

* * *

_The Protector_ reached out to Ms Tarth for comment, and received the following statement via email:

> I have no interest in engaging in discussion of my appearance as a teenager and am dismayed by the level of attention this has received. If Mr Wagstaff and his party cannot contend with us on the issues, the choice before voters next year has been made quite easy.

* * *

After having blocked her own name, Wagstaff’s name, the words ‘sapphire’ and ‘bear’, Brienne was lying in bed, doing a final compulsive and guilty scroll of Caw. She’d promised herself she’d go to bed early — she’d left work early, after all. She ought to make up for the lost time in the morning.

The message notification appeared at the top of her screen.

Jaime Lannister (now)  
 _how are you doing?_

She made a choked sound and her heart clenched. She stared at the message long enough that it slid up and away. Her hair was still damp from her bath, the heat of the water evident by the lingering red of her skin, she was full of Dornish, and perhaps the tiniest bit tipsy from the glasses of wine she drank. She ought to feel kind of snuggly and generally all right.

She didn’t. She didn’t know exactly how she was feeling, just that _all right_ were not words apropos of whatever it was she felt.

But with a swallow, she did know how to respond to his message. She switched to the text message window.

_Fine  
_ 22:57

Jaime Lannister:  
 _really  
_22:58

_Yes  
_ 22:59

Jaime Lannister:  
 _Brienne  
_23:03

She swallowed thickly and looked up to the ceiling, blinking quickly, her eyes stinging. Maybe it was the inexplicable use by him of her actual name. Or that, incomprehensibly, Jaime was the first person to ask after her who actually seemed to want to know her answer.

Immediately guilt turned her stomach. She knew both Margaery and Catelyn cared. She never really had a measure of how much, and so tended to temper her expectations of them. Margaery had shown it: she had just also decided exactly what Brienne must be feeling, acted according to that, regardless of what Brienne actually said. And Catelyn was extraordinarily busy: leader of the opposition, and organizing for an incredibly important and swiftly coming campaign. Brienne knew it was causing some strife in the Stark household; Rick, Cat’s youngest, in particular was unhappy about things. So Brienne could hardly expect Catelyn to drop everything over a spat between professional rivals. Many of her colleagues in the PA had sent messages of support. And Brienne’s siblings had all been in touch: bolstering messages and, from Alysanne, a particularly creative expletive-laden sonnet. All of that had been nice.

It just wasn’t…

For a mad moment, she wanted to tell Jaime everything. That just as with now, with others not really listening to her, it hadn’t just been Wagstaff then, either. She remembered still the slight shake of her knees, that warring sense that at any moment she’d be caught for a fraud, but the sneaking suspicion, a straightening of her spine, that she was precisely where she belonged. That actually, she knew exactly her place.

She had also been painfully awkward in her body and had shunned the required dress code until finally her father had insisted the day before the competition. Brienne had argued on political grounds — it was an outdated and sexist rule, to have the women or, in her case, girls wear dresses. A point which her father had conceded even whilst shunting her out the door, nearly dragging her to the shops, where been forced to buy some ill-fitting monstrosity; insult to injury, the shade of pink washed her out and made her appear almost sickly. She had wanted to feel mature, maybe even _respectable_ , in the way of teenagers yearning for adulthood. That day had confirmed to her that dresses were not the way.

To this day, she favoured trousers, though she had one or two favourite dresses, as well. And she had come to embrace her height and mostly accept the broad, imposing rest of her.

Not so, at sixteen, with all six-feet-three-inches of her.

Her father had tried with her hair, too. But it was really the first time he’d ever touched her hair, too wrapped up in caretaking of Alysanne and Arianne after mum left, and he hadn’t a clue. Neither had she: her hair persisted in doing a passable imitation of straw, hanging, even now, in straight, slowly drying, split-ended clumps. The results had not been flattering.

She maintained, now, that flattering or not, it oughtn’t make a difference. The substance was what mattered in any true debate, not the presentation. Of course, gobshites like Wagstaff liked to dress up nonsense in all kinds of pomp, run linguistic circles around people until they were so taken in by florid language that even the most specious of arguments sounded enticing.

It just so happened that Brienne had understood that. And so made her arguments both artistic and factual.

That was all well and good but for the fact that her stomach still turned, remembering the feeling of standing in that dress, and trying desperately to be herself when she had the barest idea of what that even meant. Her skin crawled that Wagstaff had seen her that vulnerable, had recognized it, found evidence of it and saved it. And mostly fury made her cold while nausea made her hot that he absolutely knew he’d gotten to her. Despite what she had accomplished that day, and every-godsdamned-thing she had accomplished since.

Her screen dimmed, and she tapped it awake again. Jaime’s message waited for her. _Brienne_. She chewed at the inside of her lip.

Part of her wondered if he would comfort her, if she did follow that mad impulse and tell him all of it. Not through text messages — over the phone. If she were to open his name in her address book, tap the little icon of the telephone. Hear him greet her, ask after her, speak to her with that voice of his, all cut-pronunciations that she sometimes disdained for the Citadelian poshness of it all, but recently, when he was teasing, or better still, that serious look he sometimes wore... those crisp _t_ ’s and gentle _r_ ’s seemed to wrap around her, coaxing safety and care as he spoke, deep and smooth.

A pang, just under her breastbone. Like the other day, looking at the photo he’d sent her. Like then, it lingered, spread, becoming an ache, a longing. Gods, that wasn’t fair. How could longing seem to sneak under her skin, radiating quiet pain from her chest? She couldn’t even name it — what it was she wanted. She only — the question just persisted in her mind.

What might he do, if she were to phone him?

The message cursor blinked at her; his name was only a scant stretch of her thumb away. To tap, to call.

Mad. _Mad, Brienne, that is mad_.

She could maybe just recently name him friend, and even that almost felt too bold.

Taking a large swallow from the glass of water beside her, she shook off the thought. Would simply answer his question.

_I left work early for the first time in my career  
_ 23:10

Jaime Lannister:  
 _For the first time? Gods, I skived off every oppotrunity  
_ _I got. Youve a beter reason for it. what did you do  
_ _with the time?  
_23:13

Brienne huffed. That skiving line was clearly a load of bollocks, she knew now, how hard he worked for his constituents, and she started a message challenging him.

Then stopped. Took a breath. It was easy as that, as breathing, to turn the conversation around on someone else. It made her skin itch, to answer his question. But he was just bloodyminded enough that he’d not let her off the hook so easily, even if all this was just a bizarre act of kindness on his part… And hitting send did release some of the tension in her shoulders.

_I got too much Dornish takeaway for supper.  
_ _Then took the longest bath known to Westeros  
_ 23:16

Jaime Lannister:  
 _no such thing as to much dornish. Did you spring_ _for  
desert?  
_23:18

_Of course  
_ 23:19

Jaime Lannister:  
 _Good  
_23:20

That ought to be the end of it. She ought to turn off the light now, silence her phone, roll over, go to sleep.

It was eating at her though. Those outstanding hours. She didn’t want Jaime — anyone — to think she didn’t know how lucky she was that she _could_ take that time; that she would never take advantage of it. So few people could set their own hours as she could, or duck out of the office just because she’d had a bad day. Fine, that privilege was something they were currently working on to turn into a right, but the manifesto wasn’t there yet, and the country was currently despairingly far from it. She wasn’t going to act like an entitled capitalist twazzock without acknowledging it. The work they were doing was important, and Jaime in particular… It was suddenly very important that he know she didn’t take all that for granted; that she understood exactly where on the list of priorities her piddling problems with Wagstaff and that godsforsaken photograph — that she knew that was all nothing, as compared to the rest.

She opened the text message window again, and despite seeing the three dots indicating he was typing, knowing she’d throw him off track, she quickly sent:

_Going to bed early though. So I can make up  
_ _the lost hours in the morning  
_ 23:24

The three dots vanished as the message indicator turned to _Read_. She breathed out. There. She had made herself clear. Or perhaps: she had made her understanding of her place clear. Or maybe, what her brain knew. Her heart ached, and she was faintly nauseous, and gods, but she was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to spend a week and a half eating Dornish and rewatching old favourites until the country forgot who she was, which was — it wasn’t exactly what she wanted, but she didn’t want a spotlight, and certainly not _this_ spotlight —

Her phone pinged.

Jaime Lannister:  
 _did Catelyn ask you to do that?  
_23:30

Brienne frowned.

_No of course not  
_ 23:31

Jaime Lannister:  
 _Why wolud you need to makeup the time then?  
_ 23:33

_What do you mean?  
_ 23:34

Jaime Lannister  
 _I don't' undertsand why you cant have a lie-in  
_23:36

_Or at least a regular amont of sleep .midnight_ _can  
hardly __contstitute early  
_23:38

_Because there are bigger problems than mine  
_ _facing the country. And I have work to do  
_ 23:39

Jaime Lannister:  
 _Brienne_.  
23:39

She really wished he would stop using her name. It gave his messages the veneer of sincerity she was far too easily believing when surely he must just be being nice. They had something of a rapport between them, fine, she would admit to that, maybe just, as she’d thought, becoming friends, but beyond it, he must only have been feeling some misplaced sense of responsibility, which is why he reached out at all. His messages couldn’t be half so earnest as she was attributing them. She chewed her bottom lip and scowled down at the phone.

_It’s fine  
_ 23:40

Jaime Lannister:  
 _It isn’t  
_23:41

_It is  
_ 23:41

Jaime Lannister:  
 _It realy ducking isnt. You’ve alolwed more then a_ _few  
hours adn certainl ya late start for teh love of __the  
seevn  
_23:43

She wasn’t entirely certain of how dyslexia might be affected by emotions, and felt a twist of guilt that she was perhaps aggravating him to the extent his spelling was falling apart in his rush to scold her. But then again: Others take him for scolding her at all. And for sending that argument in particular! It was a difficult one to contradict, as she had said — and insisted upon — similar things for her teammates when they’d had moments of upheaval in their lives. But it was different for her. She had a duty of care for the people who were technically her employees, never mind that she just wanted them to be looked after because she cared about them.

Jaime Lannister:  
 _Fuck ignor the typos I know are tehre and just_ _litsen  
to me  
_23:45

She had the wild thought of accusing him of not knowing what it was to be in charge of a team, of having to have a stiff upper lip and all that guff she rarely gave any credence to but for the rare occasion, like now, when it made some awful sort of sense. The only problem with that line of accusation, of course, was that he did, didn’t he? He had commanded soldiers, back before he was an MP.

But then he ought to know exactly the position she was in; surely he could never have shown anything was getting to him, either. Hypocrite.

_I have to go to sleep. Good night, Jaime.  
_ 23:46

She then decisively turned off her light and silenced her phone. She couldn’t quite bring herself to roll over and go to sleep, staring instead at the play of the street light on her ceiling. Perhaps she could indulge with a taxi to the office in the morning, as well. She didn’t want to get on the train, just in case… And she knew the back way into the building. So she could manage to go door to door, probably, without running the risk of anyone recognizing her, or commenting. So long as she didn’t get a chatty driver. Gods, that one who had told her all about how the posh wanker on that car entertainment programme had been right to punch out his producer over _steak_ — she did not want to know what someone like that might have to say about her.

Perhaps the train then. She was used to stares and typically buried her face in her phone or a book anyway. What difference would it make?

She could wear headphones.

Her phone lit up the room with another notification. She shut her eyes against it, squeezed them tight.

Then sighed gustily at the coaxing voice in her head, colluding with the eager tug in her chest, reminding her that the message wouldn’t turn to _Read_ for Jaime if she read it from her lock screen.

Jaime Lannister:  
 _ive written sevral different arguments about this_ _but  
your as immovable as the wall when you want __to be. So  
just Rest well, brienne  
_23:53

She read the message through four times and hadn’t a clue what to do with it. The smile tugging insistently at her lips was so inexplicable she pressed a knuckle to the corner of her mouth in a bid to stop it. And the way warmth blossomed, seeming to loosen some of the tension in her chest, stir something light in her belly, tickle through her limbs until she was restless with it: inexplicable. Nonsensical. Incredibly annoying. Much like Jaime himself.

And. Welcome. Silly. A little like joy.

She read the message again. Maybe he would have comforted her; less soothing, more impatient, but that might have been all right, so long as he’d listened.

_Rest well._

She argued with herself, until finally with a huff and a roll of her eyes, Brienne opened the alarm on her phone. She changed it, adding twenty minutes, because she was pragmatic, and it was late. It had nothing to do with Jaime. Nor did Jaime have anything to do with it when she set her phone back down, rolled onto her side, curling in on herself a little, just to keep that warmth safe from all the rest, and closed her eyes.

* * *

Margaery Tyrell:  
 _Are you watching GMW?  
_06:53

_No time. About to head out the door.  
_ 06:54

Margaery Tyrell:  
 _Make time.  
_06:54

_Now.  
_ 06:54

_Ad break’s ending  
_ 06:55

The camera was swooping over the brightly lit studio to focus in on the morning show hosts sat comfortably on their sofa when Brienne irritably flicked the telly on. She held her bag tight in her arms, hand clenched around the remote, intending to give Margaery only a minute before switching it off again and making a dash.

The smiling, lovely round face of Walda Frey filled the screen. Brienne was quickly reminded why she avoided _Good Morning, Westeros_ , as Walda, too cheery for seven a.m., said, ”Welcome back to Good Morning, Westeros! We’re here with Jaime Lannister.” Brienne started. “Recently of the Conservatives, now a Minister of the Opposition after crossing the floor of Parliament unexpectedly a couple of months ago.” Brienne went cold. He certainly hadn't been booked via the party: the line had been largely to keep heads down until the Wagstaff nonsense blew over. Her heart pounded. Walda continued, turning an overly sympathetic expression towards someone — _Jaime_ — not yet on camera. “Jaime. You were just about to tell us about the events earlier this week. It seems someone in your former party did not appreciate your comments in a radio interview you gave to WBC Radio4.”

The camera switched to Osmund Kettleblack. He wore a slight smile as though everything were terribly _amusing_ , and said, “You implied your former policy advisor was not as good as your current one.” This chap was a new host Brienne hadn’t seen before and was all pomposity in a way that had her gritting her teeth immediately. “Mr Wagstaff decided to take this up — ah, after a fashion — with Ms Tarth, rather than you.”

Then there was Jaime.

Even in the overbright morning show studio lights, he looked — he had styled himself perfectly. She was reminded forcibly of that meeting with Lyanna: it wasn’t anything in his expression, precisely, though there was perhaps something of the predator around the caged glint in his eye. It was rather the rest. Every line to his suit was sharp, crisp. His tie was a blend of reds: the red typical of their party, blended with a shade much more primal. It oughtn’t work, but of course, somehow on Jaime it did. His stubble was practically a work of art, lending a shadow to the hollows of his cheeks, accentuating his jaw line. Not a hair was out of place; she hadn’t realized there had been a hint of rogue to his styling until looking at him now, where all play was gone. And there again, his expression. He didn’t look angry, or disappointed, exactly, though both those sentiments were conveyed. At least she thought so. It was more the grim and taut line of his mouth, the slight furrow of his brow, shading lines to his face that made him only more handsome and more dangerous.

He hadn’t indicated… His messages last night, he hadn’t said…

She sat down heavily as Jaime started speaking.

“Yes,” he answered in sober tones. “While it was a shock to wake up to the flurry of notifications, I feel I perhaps should have anticipated it.”

Walda tilted her head, a delicate furrow in her brow. “Oh?”

“Unfortunately, such bullying was endemic when I was still a representative for the Conservative Party,” Jaime said. There had been rumours, of course. And no one who watched Tory policy unfold could doubt it; never mind the public way Jaime had been utilized, for anyone who cared to notice, which would indicate troubling behind-the-scenes practice. “I am now so accustomed to the level of respect Mrs Stark expects from all members of her team that I had forgotten.”

Osmund’s smile had taken on something of a sardonic edge; Brienne wondered if he was a Tory. If so, he undoubtedly thought bullying _built character_ in those who survived it. And those who didn’t, well.

Osmund said, “Interesting. Surely some of that is due to the stresses of politics, such as they are.”

The camera cut back to Jaime, and Brienne saw the tick in his jaw. “We all know stress.” Shaking his head, Jaime smiled slightly. Almost apologetic, like he was sorry to convey some unfortunate truth. “Mr Wagstaff’s actions two days ago were not some heated moment in the midst of crisis. And when I said bullying was endemic, I meant it was an embedded cultural practice within the Conservative Party. Men who act as Mr Wagstaff does make workplaces unsafe for women and — women or for anyone who does not identify and pass as a man, that is. It harms not only the victim of his bullying. It does ongoing damage to the organization for which he works. When that harassment is public, on this grand a scale, it says to other harassers that their behaviour is permissible —”

“Mr Wagstaff claims the email was intended to be sent internally.” It was Walda, this time, interjecting. “That the inclusion of the media was accidental.”

“Which goes back to my original point,” Jaime said firmly. “Even if the nation hadn’t become aware of the email, what of Mr Wagstaff’s colleagues internally? What message does he send to the competent people he works with, that he thinks it appropriate to treat a colleague this way?” Osmund opened his mouth to interrupt, but Jaime pressed on a little more loudly, “In many ways, Mr Wagstaff was right to send the email to the press. The press reports to the country, for who Mr Wagstaff works by way of the Conservative party, currently elected to form government on our behalf. Do we, as Mr Wagstaff’s employers by way of our representatives, deem this behaviour acceptable?”

“Well now —”

“Jaime, I wonder if we might move —”

“I apologize for pressing the point,” Jaime said, sounding not at all apologetic. “But if Mr Wagstaff so disrespects his colleagues, can we assume he is in a position to advise policies which work for all people in Westeros? And if, as I believe, he is not, what might the electorate do about that?”

“Ah, this is not relating to a policy position,” Osmund said, his unctuous smile firmly in place. _Certainly a Tory_ , Brienne thought. “Who’s to say where lines are, really, within petty party feuds?”

“Petty party feuds,” Jaime repeated slowly, giving Osmund a long look. Walda shifted uncomfortably in her seat, and Brienne understood the impulse. She wouldn’t want to share the room with that look, either.

After what must only have been a beat, Jaime went on, in wry tones, “Without wanting to wear out my welcome, I’ve brought someone with me today. Might I introduce them?”

There was a brief pause, and Brienne guessed the hosts were both listening to their ear pieces, as Osmund’s expression tightened briefly, and Walda’s smile widened in a way which Brienne would find impressive if it weren’t so transparently false. Walda said, with false cheer, “Of course. It isn’t your welcome, but rather our time limits which might —”

“Excellent,” Jaime said, and extended his hand to someone just off screen. “Ms Rivers. Please join us.”

Brienne pulled out her phone as a petite woman with blonde hair sat beside Jaime and was quickly mic'd.

_What is he doing?  
_ 07:00

Margaery Tyrell: 🤷🏻♀️  
07:00

  
“Ms Rivers,” Walda said hesitantly. “Welcome to _Good Morning, Westeros_.”

The woman nodded, smiling with closed lips. “Pia is fine,” she said, speaking with the lyrical accent typical to the Riverlands. She cleared her throat. “Thank you for having me.”

Brienne could read the distaste on Osmund’s face, try as he might — and he tried only a little — to hide it. He asked, “What … is it that you do, Pia?”

“I work for Harrenhal Survivor’s Centre, though we now have centres in all major cities across Westeros. We specialize in supporting survivors of abuse and harassment. Though Jaime invited me here today because we currently have a campaign about cyberbullying. Specifically the often gendered, racial, homophobic or cissexist nature of it.”

Brienne forced her hands loose from where they’d tightened on her knapsack straps. That didn’t mean they’d speak specifically about her. Jaime had — he hadn’t said her name at all the whole time. She made herself breathe out slowly.

Osmund was asking, “And how do you know Mr Lannister?”

“Jaime is one of our patrons,” Pia said, glancing at Jaime and smiling warmly at him, lips closed once more. Jaime nodded, still looking serious. Brienne frowned; she couldn’t remember that from the information package she’d had about him. And he’d never said —

Pia went on, “The Centre has worked with him for some time.”

“Ah,” Walda said, with clear relief. “That’s very interesting. Jaime, what led you to take an interest —”

“With due respect, that is by far the least interesting question.” Jaime shifted in his seat to better centre his attention on Pia. It meant he had his back to most of the studio cameras, and Brienne could practically hear the urgent directions happening over the studio comms. He had to know exactly what he was doing, but this was far outside party guidelines for interview procedure. And it was certainly not anything he’d have learned from the Tories, whose media policy might somehow be even more narcissistic than theirs.

“Pia,” Jaime said, tones gentled, “Perhaps you could speak to some of the centre’s work.”

_what is he doing?!  
_ 07:04

Margaery Tyrell:  
 _I still don’t know, B.  
_07:05

_Better question maybe: why is he doing_ _this?  
_ 07:05

Margaery Tyrell:  
 _Why does Jaime Lannister do anything? The gods  
_ _themselves can’t guess. But given I’m almost certain  
_ _there was no media prep for this, he’s doing it rather  
_ _well.  
_07:06

_He is.  
_ 07:06

Margaery Tyrell:  
 _Loras is going to do his nut but I’m impressed.  
_07:06

  
Brienne sat on her couch, still half wrapped in her jacket, hugging her knapsack in her lap. Jaime took over the interview, asking questions that must have been pre-agreed, as they so easily led to clear and expansive answers from Pia, who otherwise looked a little bit like she’d never been interviewed before, let alone on television. Which, Brienne reflected, was likely. Who ever took the time to properly interview survivor support services?

Brienne couldn’t help a small smile at the increasingly pinched looks on the faces of the morning hosts as Jaime cut off their asinine attempts at re-centring the interview on him. At the end he thanked Pia, and only then, turned back so the cameras would see him clearly once more, and almost as an afterthought thanked the hosts for having him on.

Their thanks were just this side of derisive (Osmund) and overly enthusiastic (Walda) followed by a desperately cheerful, “After the break, we speak with Hot Pie about his latest culinary shortcut in the kitchen!”

Brienne blinked as the show cut to an ad break. She switched off the telly. Stared at the blank black box of the screen.

He hadn’t named her.

He’d named Catelyn, and Wagstaff, and the Conservative Party. Discussed at length the Harrenhal Survivor’s Centre and Pia’s work there. But he never once referred to Brienne beyond vague references to a colleague.

Absurd, absurd reaction, but her head felt light, her shoulders sagged, and she nearly laughed out loud as relief made her giddy. She wouldn’t be fully removed from it, of course; that photo would continue to circulate, and the internet was forever. But what Jaime had said — his call for the _electorate_ to decide how best to handle Wagstaff; one might even read what he’d said as an inducement to call for Wagstaff’s resignation — would carry news cycle after new cycle. There would be op-eds, and analyses, and arsehole radio hosts ranting, and politics blogs opining, and she couldn’t even imagine social media —

And Brienne herself would be discussed by only the most determined of wankers, elsewise she would only be mentioned for context, and little else. Perhaps certain women’s organizations and feminist activists might try to centre her accomplishments, and for anyone but herself she would be in full support of the effort, particularly in view of two men arguing over treatment of a woman.

But for she herself — she did laugh then. A couple of tears slipped free. And for the first time since she’d first seen her messages the other morning, Brienne drew an easy breath.

* * *

Once she was on the train, she pulled out her phone. Fiddled with it for a few minutes. Opened the text message app.

_You didn’t have to do that.  
_ 07:43

Jaime Lannister:  
 _wuold you rather i hadn’t?  
_07:45

_No. It’s an important issue that doesn’t get nearly  
_ _enough attention in the mainstream._ _I just meant…  
_ _Really,_ _you didn’t have to do that.  
_ 07:47

Jaime Lannister:  
 _i got you itno this mess.  
_07:48

_You didn’t. Wagstaff did.  
_ 07:48

Jaime Lannister:  
 _i suppose  
_07:49

_Why did you?  
_ 08:02

Jaime Lannister:  
 _I dreamed of you  
_ 08:03

_of somoene like you  
_ 08:04

_when I startd paying mind to politics again  
_ 08:05

_the country needs you. cant let it go arnd_ _thinking  
your __dispensable  
_08:07

_Oh  
_ _08:07_

_thank you.  
_ 08:18

Jaime Lannister: 👍  
08:18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The marvellous @auntie_social went and did it again with this meme! It is amazing and I love it so much but is also, alas, spoilery for the chapter, so I'll only be sharing it here, but for your viewing pleasure:
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> Just as a final self-indulgent note: I had for a while intended to have lines from Dessa songs as chapter titles, but couldn't find one I liked for the last chapter so abandoned that plan. That said, I thought about her song [Fire Drills](https://youtu.be/L-AWAhIedT8) a lot while writing, which includes lines like, "Funny, you don’t know the concessions that you’re making until you catalog 'em/ And by then they’re many and you’re battle-hardened" and "I think a woman’s worth/ I think that she deserves/ A better line of work/ Than motherfucking vigilance/ Don’t give me vigilance/ By definition you can’t make a difference/ If the big ambition/ Is simply standing sentry to your innocence" And anyway, I thought I'd share in case you could use a song like it. Not to make a corny play off the song's name, but it is pure 🔥 


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But he did also certainly fancy her. And if there was a chance Brienne fancied him back, he wasn’t about to piss it away. There had been moments — blushes, and a flirtatious lilt sometimes to her voice and her messages, and looks that went on that little bit too long. He was certain he’d caught her checking out his arse at least twice. But none of that necessarily meant anything at all. Particularly that last: he had a very fine backside and anyone who wanted to look simply demonstrated refined aesthetic taste.
> 
> Jaime passed a hand down his face. He didn’t want to cock it up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well hello hello! Once again, a longer break than I'd have liked, but here we are. That being said, I've upped the chapter count after successful negotiations with Jaime, and the next two (2!) chapters are in good shape, so while I'll be spacing out posting because of the holiday season (and if holiday bits are your jam, intrafandom-wise exciting [festive exchange](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/JBFestiveFestivalExchange2020) & [stocking stuffer](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/JBFestiveFestivalExchangeStockingStuffers2020) shenanigans are also soon to be afoot!) the wait shouldn't be nearly so long.
> 
> On the note of Jaime, he had a lot to say! This chapter is about 2K longer than I'd intended it, but hopefully that's all right ♥
> 
> My very many thanks to both @theunpaidcritic who saw an early, incomplete and messy version as well as a couple of bit-edits, and @auntie_social who looked over the tidier, complete version, for lending me their brains, their thoughts, their patience (ahem) and their encouragement and enthusiasm as I wrangled with Jaime ♥ thank you so much! ♥
> 
> **Content warnings for this chapter:** references/mentions of the events from the last chapter; references to depression; passing reference to toxic work environments.

**2 people >**

_One hadned cookery is soemtihng I’ve yet to master_ _but ill have you  
both round when I do  
_23:22

Today

**Rhae Targaryen** :  
 _When will you be introducing me to Brienne?  
_ 12:30

_Can arrnge a meet you’d liek her_  
12:43

**Rhae Targaryen:  
** _I believe I would. That is not what I meant, however, and  
_ _I think you know that.  
_ 12:48

_I assumed wantd to meet a capable woman in goverment. Was I  
mistaken?_  
12:52

**Rhae Targaryen** :  
 _Jaime. I heard that radio interview.  
_ 12:54

_Rhae. Did’t know you listned to boring potilical wankery_  
13:02

**Rhae Targaryen:  
** _I do not make a habit of it. That was an exception as I  
_ _wished to support you. The political points you raised  
_ _were complex but conveyed with clarity. This, I always  
_ _appreciate and also now know to expect from you. It  
_ _was the comments you made about Brienne which  
_ _caught my attention, however.  
_ 13:05

_So, about meeting Brienne.  
_ 13:13

**  
Elia Martell:  
** 😂 _leave him alone Rhae. You kno w J hasn’t seen  
_ _anyone in… gods, J. When was it you last went on a  
_ _date?  
_ 13:15

_will you look at that. Ive got meteings for the next forever_  
13:29

**Elia Martell:  
** 😂😂😂 _see, Rhae?  
_ 13:33

**  
Rhae Targaryen:  
** _Yes I do see.  
_ 13:37

**  
Elia Martell:  
** _Wld kill to intview Brienne tho; Obe loves her. has  
_ _nothing bt praise, particularly after that ponce Umber  
_ _retired. Just frm the outside tho, it’s clear she’s  
_ _exceedingly clever. I emailed her bt didn’t hear back.  
_ _Think you can set it up?  
_ 13:46

_Unlielky. Once herd her say her job is bset done when the public  
dont know she exists._  
16:35

**Elia Martell:  
** _That’s such… nvm made note. Tho forgetting my  
_ _feelings about that for a mo’, that's a preference recently  
_ _madeimpossible to maintain. Fucking Wagstaff_ 🪓  
 _how’s Brienne doing since last you updated us?  
_ 16:38

_If you were abotu to say Brienne wanting her work to be inviisble is a  
load of absolute guff, __I agree. Have’nt had it out with her yte but  
intend to_  
16:49

_shes all right, all tings cosindered_  
16:51

**Elia Martell:  
** _That isn’t exactly what I was gna say bt near enough. &  
_ _that it contributes to exploitations viz invisible labour…  
_ _Will spare you both the rant bt yes.  
_ 16:53

_So, not great then.  
_ 16:54

**  
Rhae Targaryen:  
** _If it would help Brienne to know, please convey that she has  
_ _support from us. As do you, Jaime.  
_ 16:56

**  
Elia Martell:  
** ❤️!  
16:57

* * *

Jaime left Missandei organising herself at the little table they’d finally managed to find, wedged into a corner of his favourite cafe near Parliament Square. She was not what he expected. For one thing, she didn’t have a shred of Loras’s cocksure preening. Nor did she appear furious with him, which he knew Loras was.

He knew this because Loras had sent him an email time stamped midway through his GMW appearance with the subject line, “Phone call. Noon.” The first sentence was clipped professional outrage but still somehow managed to make clear that what Loras really meant was a rather more elegant, _What the bloody fuck were you thinking?_

Subsequent phone call had emphasised this. Loras did not appreciate Jaime not informing him of his scheduled appearance on GMW, nor the way he ‘comported’ himself, nor the content of his interview, nor the lack of head’s up regarding the Harrenhal Survivor’s Shelter, nor the somber tone he struck, nor the colour of his tie, nor the show’s hosts, nor the sofa on which he’d sat, nor the godsdamned studio lighting so far as Jaime could tell. What Jaime took from that phone call was that mostly Loras was fucked off that Jaime’s handling of that whole Wagstaff shitstorm has been substantially better than Loras’ lukewarm turn-the-other-bollock response, that Loras knew it and hated it.

Commending himself on his restraint, he had not told Loras he was an arrogant prat who ought to remind himself just exactly the stakes they were facing at the next election, and instead only said, “I do apologise that we haven’t seen eye to eye on this matter.” He went on mute and put the phone on speaker, low volume, for Loras’ resulting spluttering tirade, listening mostly instead to the sports report on the radio.

Jaime gave not a fig what Loras thought. He cared what Brienne thought. Then as a distance second, he cared that Wagstaff crawled so deeply into a hole that even the brilliant light Jaime had turned on wouldn’t reach him.

So far as he could tell, that latter had happened. As for Brienne…

He hadn’t heard from Brienne since their text exchange after the interview. It hadn’t been much time since then, only a few days. And he hadn’t wanted — he wanted to give her some space, if she wanted it. But. He was an impatient man. And. Days had passed. And, for all he'd told Rhae and Elia she was doing all right, he didn't actually _know_. And also. He. He missed her.

He didn't recall starting up the heavy drum of his fingers against the pickup counter until Robyn said, “Long day, mate?”

Jaime looked up and snorted at Robyn's raised eyebrow, shaking his head. “Not yet. But it's only ten.”

“Here's to caffeine making the difference,” Robyn said, holding out the two drinks, already settled in a carry carton. He didn't let go until Jaime had a firm grip on it. Robyn pointed to the carry-cup with a green check on the lid. “I've marked the herbal.”

Jaime thanked him and eyed the tea as he maneuvered through the busy cafe. He knew one other person who drank herbal tea, his ten-year-old cousin Joy, who also took it with a respectable amount of sugar (or, as Joy would cheerily sing-song as she stirred, “Auntie Genna says I take tea with my sugar not the other way 'round.”) Missandei took her herbal with nothing but the bag left in.

He could not picture Loras drinking herbal tea. But in Jaime’s experience, like hired like.

“You're sure you don’t want sugar?” he asked upon reaching their table. He eyed it critically, struggling to find a spot to put their drinks down. “They have honey.”

“No,” Missandei said, smiling in a distracted sort of a way. “This will be perfect, thank you.”

She looked up at him after a beat, glanced at the table and, seeming to realise his dilemma, quickly cleared a space. Jaime watched her free her cup dubiously — he had at least three sugars in his tea, double that for coffee, and whatever else might be said of Brienne’s beverage preferences, she did at least take some sugar too, but there was no accounting for taste — and took in her set up.

“I’m glad you’ve made yourself at home,” he said dryly, settling in across from her. She hadn’t just pulled out her laptop, but also a separate keyboard and mouse, and what appeared to be three tomes of reports they surely could not fit into their scheduled 45 minutes.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she said absently, pulling something up on her computer and sounding not at all like she expected he would. Jaime smiled slightly. She continued, still skimming through something on the screen, “I thought it would be easier this way. I wanted to review your GMW interview a bit, before we dive in properly.”

“Ah.” So it wasn’t so much that she wasn’t like Loras; she was simply more contained. “Loras has already read me the riot act,” Jaime said crisply to Missandei’s quirked brow. “You really needn’t have come all this way.”

Missandei stared at him, then shook her head slowly. “You misunderstand me, Mister Lannister. I’m here because I volunteered to work with you. Or that is — I’m officially here to bring you to heel. But frankly, who has the time for that nonsense? Really, I’m the only person on Loras’ team to think what you did was deft.”

It was Jaime’s turn to stare. “Pardon?”

“We’ve suspected for years that Wagstaff was a bully and a bastard. Accounting his recommendations for policy made that clear, but there had been rumours of his behaviour behind the scenes as well.” Jaime wondered how close to reality the rumours got; granted, many of his memories of his years with the Tories were a patchwork haze between depressive episodes, but some moments with Wagstaff stood out. “Wagstaff going after Ms Tarth for a perceived slight, rather than the person who slighted him —”

“I should confess that it wasn’t entirely intentional on my part.” Jaime passed his hand down his face. “I had mostly been —”

“Trying to get a rise out of Ms Tarth,” Missandei finished for him. That had not been what he was going to say, but there was more than a modicum of truth to it. Jaime watched Missandei warily, and the corner of her mouth twitched. Before he could process _that_ , she went on, “No one could have predicted Wagstaff would take offence to what was really fairly innocuous. I suspect you’ll agree when I suggest the PA is often too, ah, lacklustre, shall we say, in responding to criticisms or attacks. Were you aware of the full party response to Wagstaff’s harassment prior to your GMW interview?”

Jaime shook his head. “I’d seen Brie- Ms Tarth’s statement in the _Protector_ —”

“Yes.”

He paused. His ears started ringing. “That was it?” he gritted out. A storm kicked up in his right temple.

“Oh, Ms Stark said something similar to Brienne’s statement. But it was throwaway, to a hollered question as she left Parliament and got in her car.”

“ _Fucking_ —”

“Agreed. In my view, the party on the whole has internalised rather too much of the right’s rhetoric about tolerance, or some specious rubbish about rising above. Amongst even our most idealistic members, there is a certain distance from the lived realities for many in Westeros which exacerbates the problem. What becomes then theoretical often leads to unwarranted superiority or negligence. And a lack of fire for the fight for what’s right.” She paused. Took a breath. “Or left, as it were.” It was an incredibly corny joke, but Jaime smiled nonetheless. Missandei returned the smile, then sobered. “I think you may have that fire, Mister Lannister. I’m interested in stoking it.”

He eyed her, trying to judge whether it was a come-on or meant in earnest. He’d certainly faced stranger come-ons, but did not particularly fancy one in his favourite coffee shop. But Missandei only held his gaze steadily, and finally Jaime said, “You said you wanted to go through the interview.”

She was an extraordinarily composed person but Jaime caught the flash of relief on her face as she turned her laptop outwards, so he could see. “Your handling of the situation was very good. But I think we might improve it.”

“Improve perfection?” Jaime drawled, more on instinct than anything, but he did appreciate that Missandei very deliberately waited until he looked at her so he could see her roll her eyes.

“I said it was very good, Mister Lannister. Not perfect.”

Jaime grinned. “Call me Jaime.”

“Jaime,” she agreed. “I expect there are specific things you’re hoping to accomplish upon re-election to government.” More than a few. He also had a long list he need make recompense. “Let’s work together to make that happen.”

“Oh, you’re very good.”

“No, Jaime.” Missandei turned her focus back to the laptop, her hair falling to cover her face, but he heard the smile in her voice. “ _I’m_ perfect.”

* * *

**Lyanna >**

_did yuo get the files?_  
17:36

_Aye, ta  
_ 21:45

_No commment on teh other atachment? I thouhgt it might be siutable  
for your campagni flyers_  
21:52

_Yer a plum an I’m ignoring it  
_ 22:00

_Good work on GMW the other day btw  
_ 22:05

_Thx_  
22:06

_d’you think Wankstain will lose his job?  
_ 22:07

_He’ll go to ground for a whle but he knwos to much he’s a shit  
_ _geyser, hell blow again evenutally_  
22:11

_Do the Tories never get tired of bein such raging  
_ _arseholes?  
_ 22:11

_No._  
22:12

_Best watch what you say next time then.  
_ 22:13

_Arn’t you a little young & not cynical eonugh for ‘do as i say not as  
i do”?_  
22:18

_When have i ever stuck my foot in my gob in public?  
_ 22:19

_I admit i’m taking it more as a foregon conclusion then estabilished  
precident_  
22:25

_I don’t like you that much you kno  
_ 22:27

_You like me well enoguh to txt me comliments_  
22:30

_That was barely a compliment  
_ 22:31

_From you it was like a full on parade.  
_ 22:34

🖕🖕🖕  
22:34

_Anyway I meant about brienne. Everythin else you said_ _in  
that r4 interview was fine. Cept the braggin  
_ _22:39_

_And i bloody am cynical  
_ 22:40

…  
22:41

🧐  
22:42

_Waht have we done that you think cynisicm is good_  
22:50

_fucked the planet? and various political and social  
_ _infrastructure systems? made uni expensive af?  
_ 22:51

_Fare on all counts_  
22:54

* * *

Jaime made his way down the compartment until he found a seat around the middle; he’d planned his trip for after the morning rush in the quiet car, was hopeful he’d keep the pair of seats to himself. Still — he tossed his bag in the window seat and settled himself by the aisle, pulling out the laptop he didn’t really intend to do much on.

Back before he’d become a politician of note, he rather liked sitting in the regular train cars. He missed watching the teens who put their heads together to giggle about who they fancied, or got so rambunctious it was impossible to make out actual individual words; while Jaime could see other adults gritting their teeth, he tended to find the energy infectious. There were the drunks fresh from watching footie, and stupid, but by and large more entertaining than troublesome. The harried guardians, corralling children, but smiling to themselves once the children mostly settled down or leaning their heads back, closing their eyes to the racket. Quiet people with their faces glued to phones or e-readers or actual, physical books. That last, the best, when the cover text wasn’t too ornate for him to parse. He’d found more than a handful of decent reads that way. Then there were also the older folks, in their anoraks or endless scarves, thick lenses on their specs, a tight grip on their canes or walkers. Dogs of all descriptions, often cheerful, sometimes frightened, with owners who frequently looked remarkably like their dogs.

He missed all that. The quiet compartment tended towards exhausted or strained professionals who didn’t raise their eyes from their laptops until they reached their station. Which was boring, left Jaime with few excuses not to do work, and their lack of any interest in the world around them was exactly why he was there. He’d tried travelling in a regular compartment after he crossed the floor, but had been almost immediately surrounded. Mostly people had been gracious, but whatever Loras and Catelyn and anyone else might think, Jaime didn’t actually relish being the centre of attention. He was only used to it. Sort of. And when it came to the PA… if it was part of what he had to do, to make up for all the rest, he would do it without voicing any complaint.

He glanced up as a man shepherded a small child past — unusual, but Jaime felt a small flare of hope when they stopped by the table seat ahead in Jaime’s line of sight. The child took their thumb from their mouth as they leveraged themselves into the seat before the man said abruptly, “Ach, the quiet cabin. Won’t do, ye terror.” He rubbed his hand through the child’s hair and continued affectionately, “Let’s find us somewhere you can make whatever racket you please.”

Said terror dutifully bumbled their way back to the floor, and Jaime just resisted tilting sideways into the aisle to watch them until the cabin doors slid shut behind them.

He sighed and leaned back, closing his eyes. Brienne would probably love the quiet compartment. Could stick that stern face of hers into her laptop or into her endless — and inexplicably _paper_ — reports, and only surface when her station was announced, just like the rest of them. Maybe she’d even scowl about it.

Jaime considered sending her a message, and, just as he had the last several… dozen... times he thought of it, dismissed it. If he asked about her train preferences, she would answer. But would it be because she felt she ought to, or because she _wanted_ to? Tightening his hand to a fist to stop himself reaching for his phone, he watched his knuckles go white, then shook his fingers loose. It had been five days since they last texted and his thumbs up emoji mocked him. What else was he to say when she thanked him for… attempting to put right that mess, the one he'd made because he'd forgotten for a moment just how vile his former colleagues could be? Or from the way she had answered him, something about their texting, perhaps it was that he took time to actually ask after her? Appreciate her? Think her fascinating since that first morning, when he’d watched her face go first blank then slowly stormy in response to a flippant, snide remark he’d made about income redistribution? He believed in it, had for some time, but cynical habits die hard, perhaps particularly when he’d been anticipating at least three more hours of sleep, and then there had been Brienne: clipped, that Stormlands burr sneaking in as she laid out for him exactly why income redistribution worked, was important, in far too much detail, with far too much idealism, and yet he’d been so captivated he wanted her to keep going, read him the shipping forecast next if it inspired the same mood in her.

Or for learning that tell she had, just before she joked or, once, teased: something she only started doing when she had begun to trust him, just a little, just enough for it to feel like the beginnings of victory. The corner of her mouth would tick just before she made her joke, and there’d be a tremble in her cheek afterward that Jaime felt absurdly in his own, like pride that she’d said it.

Or because he knew the way her eyes would flare when they discussed those who were suffering, or were elsewise downtrodden and kept from security, her hands balling into fists as though to keep all that blazing justice captured inside the whole sturdy, muscular lot of her. Maybe it was just how much he wished she’d let it all loose: he wanted to see that incandescence, would relish what it wreaked…

Maybe this was it: that he liked her, possibly rather too much for the length of their acquaintance. That, on more than one occasion, he had wondered exactly how she might taste if he kissed her, what sounds she might make if he tilted her jaw, looped his arm around her waist and pulled her flush against him. Or how those astonishing eyes of hers might change, darken, go hazy with lust if she saw him naked.

He rather liked the idea of Brienne sitting at his kitchen table for breakfast. Eyes soft from sleep, satisfying bedhead thoroughly earned, espresso he’d perfected to her preference steaming in front of her while he made her breakfast.

And — he _would_ make breakfast. None of his usual, tasty but too sensible porridge. No, he’d try his hand at soldiers.

Maybe she’d wear one of his shirts. Maybe that would be all she’d wear, endless legs on display, he might touch her thigh while they ate, and bickered, and then maybe they would shag again. It was almost always Sunday in his fantasies, so they’d have the time.

He had, at this point, imagined sex with Brienne in almost every corner of his flat — and indeed, several places significantly less private — but had discovered a hitherto unrealised interest in fucking in the kitchen. There was something about the idea of Brienne spread for him in the breakfast nook, eyes dark, cheeks flushed, lips parted, legs falling open and hanging over the side of the table as he —

Shifted in his seat. Cleared his throat. Frowned down at his laptop and stabbed at the power button to wake it up. He determinedly scanned for the sign giving the train’s wifi, ignoring the kindling heat under his skin, the persistent images in his mind’s eye of Brienne’s legs, going on just absolutely forever, and her eyes trained on him with that clever intensity she had, only it wouldn’t be about policy, it would be about him and her, _them_ , together, and —

Squinting to make out the details as he typed it in: fucking nonsensical wifi passwords. Most trains had adapted, becoming things like “WesterlandsFirst@“ which he could just about manage on the first go. This older train was somehow still a garble of text and numbers that took him nine attempts to get right. He made mental note to have Peck add that to his accessibility docket.

Opening his email, he forced himself to focus as it downloaded new emails on the tired wifi, but still somehow only just clocked when the email notification was sliding away. His heart jumped; he couldn’t possibly have been right. His dyslexia was colluding with his cock and spinning him lies —

_For fuck’s sake, open the godsdamn email programme._ He could have sworn he saw a message from Brienne, with a subject line reading “I’ll come.”

He was a bloody teenager, heart in his throat as he tabbed the email programme open.

There _was_ an email from _Tarth, Brienne_. Jaime made himself breathe deep, focus on the _actual_ words in the subject line: “I’ll come” he choked, then: “to regret this” and he huffed a laugh.

“Fucking hells,” he muttered. Then took a breath, and opened it.

“Jaime,” it started. Gods just Brienne using his name set warmth expanding his chest. Hells, he’d even straightened in his seat without realising it. The message was sparse, a note about Duncan the Tall, with a link to an article about how he’s unlikely to have been from Tarth. But it was a message. And something of a playful one, by Brienne’s standards.

Paying no notice to the article, Jaime wrote back: _Impossible. Where else do they grow people as tall as you?_

While keeping an eye out for her response, he looked through the rest of his messages. There was one from Peck, which he opened first. His top surgery consultation had been scheduled; two days, in Gulltown so he’d need the day off, accounting for the train journeys. Jaime was halfway through his reply when Brienne’s response came in. It was mostly just a list of the tallest people in modern Westeros and where they hailed from. Notably — and impossibly, in Jaime’s view; if the train’s wifi was stronger, he might actually attempt some counter-research himself — none were from Tarth.

The first draft of his response was a nonstarter. He’d made reference to her stature, with the unstated but full support of his many fantasies, but in referencing her body, he could picture Wagstaff’s smug face and sneering tones, and didn’t want to bring their conversation anywhere near there. For only the third time — which was incredibly restrained of himself, he thought — he considered reaching out to his contacts about a discreet hit.

> **From** : Lannister, Jaime  
>  **To** : Tarth, Brienne  
>  **Subject** : Re: I’ll come to regret this
> 
> Good effort. We’re looking for historical standards not present day. I’ve seen nothing to convince me Duncan wasn’t from Tarth. Indeed very likely your direct ancestor.

Brienne of course then sent a list of historical height averages, to which Jaime asserted nothing there was proven but that tall people had existed. She then texted him, to his delight:

_You are infuriating.  
_ 11:34

_I am simply a truth seaker. With aqueduct evidence i’ll be covninced_  
11:36

_I don’t actually believe you.  
_ 11:37

And yet reliably and before he could text a response, a new email arrived with a cross examination of heights and locales by century, which he cheerfully disregarded entirely, opting instead to respond:

> **From** : Lannister, Jaime  
>  **To** : Tarth, Brienne  
>  **Subject** : Re: I’ll comea round to your point of view
> 
> You say I infuriate you & yet you  
> 1\. Continue to email me, &  
> 2\. Already knew exactly where this was headed. Your subject line gave the game away.

> **From** : Tarth, Brienne  
>  **To** : Lannister, Jaime  
>  **Subject** : Re: I’ll comea round to your point of view
> 
> Ha ha. You changed the subject line. Very droll.
> 
> I only email you because you persist in emailing me.
> 
> … Today was an exception.

Jaime grinned. While he supposed he really ought to be finalising his notes for the address he was meant to give after the constituency surgery, he saw an opportunity. Though, he’d never in his life attempted to let a colleague know he was interested. With friends it was easier — he scoffed at himself, remembered nights fretting much like this, for fear of losing said friendship. And friendship was an element here, too. If friendship was all Brienne was interested in, he would happily take it. But he did also certainly fancy her. And if there was a chance she fancied him back, he wasn’t about to piss it away. He’d lost enough time. His flat could feel so empty. And rarely so keenly as in the day after Brienne had been and gone.

There had been moments — blushes, and a flirtatious lilt sometimes to her voice and her messages, and looks that went on that little bit too long. He was certain he’d caught her checking out his arse at least twice. But none of that necessarily meant anything at all. Particularly that last: he had a very fine backside and anyone who wanted to look simply demonstrated refined aesthetic taste.

Jaime passed a hand down his face. He didn’t want to cock it up.

All much better done in person, or in the least, over the phone. But at present, this was what he had, and he didn’t want to wait for the next time the party decided he needed briefing so Brienne might arrive once again at his door at some absurd hour when he was more than like liable to say something so direct she would be within her rights to dump her coffee on his head.

So, fine. Email. He could figure this one; find the line between direct and presumptuous.

> **From** : Lannister, Jaime  
>  **To** : Tarth, Brienne  
>  **Subject** : Re: I’ll comea round to your point of view
> 
> I’m not entirely sure what you're talking about. The subject has remained the same for the duration of our discussion. I have attached proof.
> 
> To your other point, yes I do. I like speaking with you.

He added an attachment, a screenshot of his inbox, doctored so that each of the most recent emails from Brienne had the same subject line.

> **From** : Tarth, Brienne  
>  **To** : Lannister, Jaime  
>  **Subject** : Re: Jaime Lannister is a juvenile pillock
> 
> Anyone can edit subject lines that way:
> 
> Taking the piss out of me you mean.

She had included a screenshot of her own. Only dimly remembering what her office looked like from the glimpse of it he’d gotten, there was still something entirely charming about picturing Brienne sitting at her desk, ignoring the demands of her work day and whatever interruptions her team might bring her way to instead mock up that image. _He_ was messing around on a train journey; _she_ , ever diligent Brienne, was messing around mid-work day. It felt very, very much like he’d won something.

It was also incredibly easy to imagine Brienne trying to fight a smile, pleased with herself. As well she ought to be. It was a good thing they were miles apart; had he been near her, the urge to touch her — he’d start with his fingers to her cheek, where that triumphant tremble lived — would have driven him to distraction.

He wondered if she was ticklish.

Re-reading the last line, he also had to wonder if she was trying to put him off. Again, with a groan, this was so much better done in person. Given the rest of the message though… He tapped his prosthetic against the tray table until someone nearby sighed pointedly. Dropping that hand into his lap, he leaned forward, propping his elbow on the tray and pressing his fingers into his eyes. If she was who he thought, it was just as possible she was weighing the same concerns he was. Quite aside from basic respect, Brienne was also a team lead in a prominent political party and could not afford to be seen harassing an MP. It was an endearing, oddly commiserative thought. And comforting, in a way, if he was correct.

Right. Once more, then. And if she put him off again, he’d drop it.

> **From** : Lannister, Jaime  
>  **To** : Tarth, Brienne  
>  **Subject** : Re: Jaime Lannister may be a juvenile pillock but he is also utterly brilliant
> 
> You really shouldn’t bury your compliments, Brienne. A man might miss something important like that, tucked away in a subjcet line.
> 
> Absolutely. And also having actual conversations. What do you Stormlanders call it? Natter? Chinwag? Though I file complaint that it’s been more over text and email of late than in person.

The urge to keep his eyes fixed on his inbox in anticipation of her reply was almost embarrassingly strong, but his station was also now only four stops off. He responded to Peck's latest email, listened to the first four minutes of the draft of the address he was meant to make later that evening, spent two minutes whispering edits into his voice note app (though he was fairly certain the cabin had now emptied around him despite the earlier pointed sigher), and was just about to shut his laptop when his email refreshed and there was a new message:

> _Tarth, Brienne_ | **Re** : Jaime Lannister is a juvenile pillock and he is also utterly annoying

_“This is Lannisport Central. Train terminates here. Please ensure you have all belongings and disembark the train. Passengers looking to transfer...”_

“Sod’s law,” Jaime muttered, shut his laptop with a snap. Quickly packing his things, he was light on his feet, swaying and jostling his way to the train doors. A storm must be coming, there was a hint of sea on the air when he stepped out of the station. He’d take a stroll on the sea wall before returning to King’s Landing later that night. For now, it was a convenient, short walk to the constituency office. He’d caught the latest train possible from KL, so wouldn’t have time to respond but he may have a chance to read what else Brienne had said before the first constituent arrived. The new amended subject line was surely a good sign, and he could… no, that possibility was already off the table.

Jaime smiled, raised his hand to Maggie, ambling down the road. “All right, Maggie?” he called, waiting by the door. She was much slower these days, he noted, hands firm on the handles of her walker, but that determined set to her mouth hadn’t changed in the seven years he’d now known her.

“Don’t you wait on me, lad,” she called back. She always said that; he always waited. “Get yourself organised.”

“Lewys already has everything organised,” Jaime replied, nodding to his constituency staffer as he held open the door. Lewys was a gentle soul and had been working in the office for as long as Jaime had been an MP. He’d wondered, once or twice, whether Lewys begrudged Jaime’s cross, but when he’d asked, Lewys only looked at him evenly, held his gaze and said, “Honestly, I’m relieved.” They’d left it at that.

Which wasn’t to say it was always easy to meet Lewys’ eyes. He’d been there through some of the worst things Jaime had signed and supported.

“You’re miles away,” Maggie said, and Jaime startled, finding her through the door and looking back at him. “I’ll leave you to it shortly, Minister. My list’s not long today.”

Jaime dropped his head and smiled to himself. She always said that, too, and yet still somehow they always took at least half an hour. Brienne’s email would keep, no matter the insistent flip in his chest. “Your usual water with lemon, Maggie?” He let the door swing shut behind him.

True to form, Maggie was headed back out the door thirty-three minutes later. Lewys had gone to fetch him a tea, and Jaime woke up his laptop. There was a second message waiting for him from Brienne. A meeting invite, with the subject line _We’re in luck._

“I’ve just seen Mister Darry down the street,” Lewys said, depositing the tea on Jaime’s desk. “Can’t say for sure he’s coming here but…”

“It seems likely,” Jaime sighed. The first few weeks after his cross had seen a flurry of constituents new to him appearing during the surgery. Many he’d been, well, if not exactly happy to meet them, they at least weren’t trying. And most had valid points and renewed interest in government now that he was on the progressive side, something Jaime hadn’t anticipated. Jonothor Darry on the other hand… the word ‘disgrace’ came up more often than Jaime had heard in all the preceding years of his life and he was Tywin Lannister’s son.

Of course there were legitimate ethical snags in his decision to cross. Chief among his worries: had he invalidated his own mandate by leaving the party with which he was elected? He would — and did — argue that despite limitations in a Parliamentary system which prioritised party over representative, he was still bound to act by conscience. What was best for his constituents and the nation could not be — had not ever been — delivered by the Tories, and once he knew that, he needed to act. There were other issues of course, even if the first question could be answered. How much legitimacy was there to a mandate when only 63% of Lannisport North voted in the last election? He had received a firm 52% of the vote, a significant majority higher than most of his former colleagues, but 52% of 63% of voters was by no means a resounding endorsement.

But here was Darry, who deemed loyalty and obedience above all other. Jaime would grant he was earnest about it, but the prick's priorities could, by Jaime's estimation, only kindly be referred to as complete shite.

“Would you put our charming friend Jonothor off for two minutes so I can listen to this email?”

Lewys nodded his assent and Jaime plugged in earbuds as Lewys left.

The computerised voice read, “Jaime. The new candidate for Gulltown has been selected and we are to travel together to the party welcome brunch on Thursday. There is a new policy Catelyn would like you to announce and I am to bring you up to speed. Let me know what time suits you for departure list below and I can book us a train. And Jaime you and I may natter but Anya Waynwood has a reputation for being stern. Do try to act professional.”

Grinning, Jaime had just hit send, accepting the meeting invite with a hastily typed, _Woudln’t miss it,_ when Darry walked in.

“Mister Darry,” Jaime said cheerfully, standing and gesturing him to a seat. He ignored Darry’s suspicious glower, continued in the same tone, “What would you like to discuss today?”

His good mood persisted through the meeting, to Darry’s clear and increasing aggravation. Nothing the tedious sod said touched him. Darry mattered not at all, but Brienne did. And Brienne had emailed him just because she wanted to, just for fun. Then had teased him, more than once. In two days time, Jaime would have her to himself for at least a couple of hours, and if the day worked in his favour, then perhaps a couple more. And, gilding the lily: Brienne had said _We_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In terms of random writer updates: there is a chance that the rating for this fic will go up, as I'm currently arguing with both Brienne and Jaime about it. Not sure if anyone has a strong feeling about that? Feel free to let me know! But either way, I will at least flag a chapter ahead if that happens ♥
> 
> Also constituency surgeries are this great thing that to my knowledge do not exist in Canada which is a damn shame: essentially MPs in the UK hold 'surgeries' which are like open hours, typically once a week. Usually this is on a Friday/the weekend, but for reasons of plot (aka I did not want there to be a weekend between the emails and when they see one another again, so let's call it, ~ _an oddity of parliamentary scheduling_ ) Jaime holds this week's on a Tuesday.
> 
> Next chapter: we're back with Brienne and she and Jaime are perhaps more on the same page than either of them realise. A (rough) sneak peak:
>
>> Her phone buzzed, but instead of the brief spurt of a text message, it kept buzzing. She looked down.  
>  _Jaime Lannister_ , it read. And then, below that: _Slide to answer_.
> 
> Thanks as always for reading ♥ 


End file.
